THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 


J.  Lorenz  Sporer 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 


ARNOLD   BENNETT 


BY   ARNOLD    BENNETT 


NOVELS 

THE  LION'S  SHABX 

THESE  TWAIN 

CLAYHANGER 

HILDA  LESSWAYS 

THE  OLD  WIVES'  TALK 

DENRY  THE  AUDACIOUS 

THE  OLD  ADAM 

HELEN  WITH  THE  HIGH  HAND 

THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWM 

THE  BOOK  OF  CAELOTTA 

BURIED  ALIVE 

A  GREAT  MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  GLIMPSE 

THE  CITY  OF  PLEASURE 

THE  GRAND  BABYLON  HOTJX 

HUGO 

TEE  GATES  OF  WRATH 

POCKET  PHILOSOPHIES 
THE  AUTHOR'S  CRAFT 

MARRIED  LIFE 

FRIENDSHIP  AND  HAPPINESS 

HOW  TO  LIVE  ON  24  HOURS  A  DAV 

THE  HUMAN  MACHINE 

LITERARY  TASTE 

MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 

PLAYS 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 
CUPID  AND  COMMONSENSK 
WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  WANTS 
POLITE  FARCES 
THE  HONEYMOON 

IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  EDWARD  KNOBLAUCH 
MILESTONES 

MISCELLANEOUS 

PARIS  NIGHTS 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  AM  AUTHOR 

LIBERTY  I 

OVER  THERE:  WAR  SCENES 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


BY 

ARNOLD  BENNETT 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  OLD  WIVES'  TALE,"  "CLAYHANGER,* 

"HILDA  LESSWAYS,"  "THESE  TWAIN," 

ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


College 
Library 


Virtue  has  never  yet  been  adequately  represented 
by  any  who  have  had  any  claim  to  be  considered 
virtuous.  It  is  the  sub-vicious  who  best  understand 
virtue.  Let  the  virtuous  -people  stick  to  describing 
vice — which  they  can  do  well  enough. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


W? 

u  f 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I   THE  PROMENADE n 

II  THE  POWER 14 

III  THE  FLAT 17 

IV  CONFIDENCE 24 

V  OSTEND 29 

VI   THE  ALBANY    ........  36 

VII   FOR  THE  EMPIRE 43 

VIII    BOOTS 49 

IX  THE  CLUB 54 

X  THE  MISSION 62 

XI   THE  TELEGRAM 69 

XII   RENDEZVOUS 78 

XIII  IN  COMMITTEE 86 

XIV  QUEEN 93 

XV   EVENING  OUT 100 

XVI   THE  VIRGIN 108 

XVII   SUNDAY  AFTERNOON 115 

XVIII  THE  MYSTIC 124 

XIX  THE  VISIT 134 

XX   MASCOT 146 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI  THE  LEAVE-TRAIN 151 

XXII  GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR       .     .     .  158 

XXIII  THE  CALL 171 

XXIV  THE  SOLDIER 179 

XXV  THE  RING 185 

XXVI  THE  RETURN 187 

XXVII  THE  CLYDE 197 

XXVIII  SALOME 208 

XXIX  THE  STREETS 220 

XXX  THE  CHILD'S  ARM 229 

XXXI  "ROMANCE" 235 

XXXII  MRS.  BRAIDING 247 

XXXIII  THE  ROOF 253 

XXXIV  IN  THE  BOUDOIR 263 

XXXV  QUEEN  DEAD 271 

XXXVI  COLLAPSE 286 

XXXVII  THE  INVISIBLE  POWERS 299 

XXXVIII  THE  VICTORY 310 

XXXIX  IDYLL 320 

XL  THE  WINDOW 329 

XLI  THE  ENVOY •     •  343 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 


THE    PRETTY    LADY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  PROMENADE 

THE  piece  was  a  West  End  success  so  brilliant  that 
even  if  you  belonged  to  the  intellectual  despisers  of 
the  British  theatre  you  could  not  hold  up  your  head 
in  the  world  unless  you  had  seen  it;  even  for  such  as 
you  it  was  undeniably  a  success  of  curiosity  at  least. 

The  stage  scene  flamed  extravagantly  with  crude 
orange  and  veridian  light,  a  rectangle  of  bedazzling 
illumination;  on  the  boards,  in  the  midst  of  great 
width,  with  great  depth  behind  them  and  arching 
height  above,  tiny  squeaking  figures  ogled  the  prime- 
val passion  in  gesture  and  innuendo.  From  the  arc 
of  the  upper  circle  convergent  beams  of  light  pierced 
through  gloom  and  broke  violently  on  this  group  of 
the  half-clad  lovely  and  the  swathed  grotesque.  The 
group  did  not  quail.  In  fullest  publicity  it  was  li- 
censed to  say  that  which  in  private  could  not  be  said 
where  men  and  women  meet,  and  that  which  could 
not  be  printed.  It  gave  a  voice  to  the  silent  appeal 
of  pictures  and  posters  and  illustrated  weeklies  all 
over  the  town;  it  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  most 
secret  groves  in  the  vast,  undiscovered  hearts  of  men 

ii 


12  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

and  women  young  and  old.  The  half-clad  lovely 
were  protected  from  the  satyrs  in  the  audience  by  an 
impalpable  screen  made  of  light  and  of  ascending 
music  in  which  strings,  brass,  and  concussion  exem- 
plified the  nai've  sensuality  of  lyrical  niggers.  The 
guffaw  which,  occasionally  leaping  sharply  out  of  the 
dim,  mysterious  auditorium,  surged  round  the  sil- 
houetted conductor  and  drove  like  a  cyclone  between 
the  barriers  of  plush  and  gilt  and  fat  cupids  on  to  the 
stage — this  huge  guffaw  seemed  to  indicate  what 
might  have  happened  if  the  magic  protection  of  the 
impalpable  screen  had  not  been  there. 

Behind  the  audience  came  the  restless  Promenade, 
where  was  the  reality  which  the  stage  reflected. 
There  it  was,  multitudinous,  obtainable,  seizable, 
dumbly  imploring  to  be  carried  off.  The  stage,  very 
daring,  yet  dared  no  more  than  hint  at  the  existence 
of  the  bright  and  joyous  reality.  But  there  it  was, 
under  the  same  roof. 

Christine  entered  with  Madame  Larivaudiere. 
Between  shoulders  and  broad  hats,  as  through  a  tele- 
scope, she  glimpsed  in  the  far  distance  the  illusive, 
glowing  oblong  of  the  stage;  then  the  silhouetted 
conductor  and  the  tops  of  instruments;  then  the  dark, 
curved  concentric  rows  of  spectators.  Lastly  she 
took  in  the  Promenade,  in  which  she  stood.  She  sur- 
veyed the  Promenade  with  a  professional  eye.  It 
instantly  shocked  her,  not  as  it  might  have  shocked 
one  ignorant  of  human  nature  and  history,  but  by 
reason  of  its  frigidity,  its  constraint,  its  solemnity,  its 
pretence.  In  one  glance  she  embraced  all  the  figures, 
moving  or  stationary,  against  the  hedge  of  shoulders 


THE  PROMENADE  13 

in  front  and  against  the  mirrors  behind — all  of  them : 
the  programme  girls,  the  cigarette  girls,  the  choco- 
late girls,  the  cloak-room  girls,  the  waiters,  the  over- 
seers, as  well  as  the  vivid  courtesans  and  their  clien- 
tele in  black,  tweed,  or  khaki.  With  scarcely  an  ex- 
ception they  all  had  the  same  strange  look,  the  same 
absence  of  gesture.  They  were  northern,  blond,  self- 
contained,  terribly  impassive.  Christine  impulsively 
exclaimed — and  the  faint  cry  was  dragged  out  of 
her,  out  of  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  by  what  she 
saw: 

"My  God  I    How  mournful  it  is!" 

Lise  Larivaudiere,  a  stout  and  benevolent  Bruxel- 
loise,  agreed  with  uncomprehending  indulgence.  The 
two  chatted  together  for  a  few  moments,  each  cere- 
moniously addressing  the  other  as  "Madame," 
"Madame,"  and  then  they  parted,  insinuating  them- 
selves separately  into  the  slow,  confused  traffic  of 
the  Promenade. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   POWER 

CHRISTINE  knew  Piccadilly,  Leicester  Square,  Re- 
gent Street,  a  bit  of  Oxford  Street,  the  Green  Park, 
Hyde  Park,  Victoria  Station,  Charing  Cross.  Be- 
yond these,  London,  measureless  as  the  future  and 
the  past,  surrounded  her  with  the  unknown.  But  she 
had  not  been  afraid,  because  of  her  conviction  that 
men  were  much  the  same  everywhere,  and  that  she 
had  power  over  them.  She  did  not  exercise  this 
power  consciously;  she  had  merely  to  exist  and  it  ex- 
ercised itself.  For  her  this  power  was  the  mystical 
central  fact  of  the  universe.  Now,  however, 
as  she  stood  in  the  Promenade,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  something  uncanny  had  happened  to  the 
universe.  Surely  it  had  shifted  from  its  pivot! 
Her  basic  conviction  trembled.  Men  were 
not  the  same  everywhere,  and  her  power  over 
them  was  a  delusion.  Englishmen  were  incompre- 
hensible; they  were  not  human;  they  were  apart. 
The  memory  of  the  hundreds  of  Englishmen  who 
had  yielded  to  her  power  in  Paris  (for  she  had  spe- 
cialised in  travelling  Englishmen)  could  not  re-estab- 
lish her  conviction  as  to  the  sameness  of  men.  The 
presence  of  her  professed  rivals  of  various  nation- 
alities in  the  Promenade  could  not  restore  it  either. 

14 


THE  POWER  15 

The  Promenade  in  its  cold,  prim  languor  was  the 
very  negation  of  desire.  She  was  afraid.  She  fore- 
saw ruin  for  herself  in  this  London,  inclement,  misty 
and  inscrutable. 

And  then  she  noticed  a  man  looking  at  her,  and 
she  was  herself  again  and  the  universe  was  itself 
again.  She  had  a  sensation  of  warmth  and  heavenly 
reassurance,  just  as  though  she  had  drunk  an  anisette 
or  a  creme  de  menthe.  Her  features  took  on  an  in- 
nocent expression;  the  characteristic  puckering  of 
the  brows  denoted  not  discontent,  but  a  gentle  con- 
cern for  the  whole  world  and  also  virginal  curiosity. 
The  man  passed  her.  She  did  not  stir.  Presently 
he  emerged  afresh  out  of  the  moving  knots  of  prom- 
enaders  and  discreetly  approached  her.  She  did  not 
smile,  but  her  eyes  lighted  with  a  faint  amiable  be- 
nevolence— scarcely  perceptible,  doubtful,  deniable 
even,  but  enough.  The  man  stopped.  She  at  once 
gave  a  frank,  kind  smile,  which  changed  all  her  face. 
He  raised  his  hat  an  inch  or  so.  She  liked  men  to 
raise  their  hats.  Clearly  he  was  a  gentleman  of 
means,  though  in  morning  dress.  His  cigar  had  a 
very  fine  aroma.  She  classed  him  in  half  a  second 
and  was  happy.  He  spoke  to  her  in  French,  with  a 
slight,  unmistakable  English  accent,  but  very  good, 
easy,  conversational  French — French  French.  She 
responded  almost  ecstatically: 

"Ah!    You  speak  French!" 

She  was  too  excited  to  play  the  usual  comedy,  so 
flattering  to  most  Englishmen,  of  pretending  that 
she  thought  from  his  speech  that  he  was  a  French- 
man. The  French  so  well  spoken  from  a  man's 


16  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

mouth  in  London  most  marvellously  enheartened  her 
and  encouraged  her  in  the  perilous  enterprise  of  her 
career.  She  was  candidly  grateful  to  him  for  speak- 
ing French. 

He  said  after  a  moment: 

"You  have  not  at  all  a  fatigued  air,  but  would  it 
not  be  preferable  to  sit  down?" 

A  man  of  the  world !  He  could  phrase  his  polite- 
ness. Ah  I  There  were  none  like  an  Englishman  of 
the  world.  Frenchmen,  delightfully  courteous  up  to 
a  point,  were  unsatisfactory  past  that  point.  French- 
men of  the  South  were  detestable,  and  she  hated 
them. 

"You  have  not  been  in  London  long?"  said  the 
man,  leading  her  away  to  the  lounge. 

She  observed  then  that,  despite  his  national 
phlegm,  he  was  in  a  state  of  rather  intense  excitation. 
Luck !  Enormous  luck !  And  also  an  augury  for  the 
future !  She  was  professing  in  London  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life;  she  had  not  been  in  the  Promenade 
for  five  minutes ;  and  lo !  the  ideal  admirer.  For  he 
was  not  young.  What  a  fine  omen  for  her  profound 
mysticism  and  superstitiousness ! 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   FLAT 

HER  flat  was  in  Cork  Street.  As  soon  as  they  en- 
tered it  the  man  remarked  on  its  warmth  and  its  cosi- 
ness, so  agreeable  after  the  November  streets. 
Christine  only  smiled.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  flat — 
a  small  sitting  room  with  a  piano  and  a  sideboard, 
opening  into  a  larger  bedroom  shaped  like  a  thick 
L.  The  short  top  of  the  L,  not  cut  off  from  the  rest 
of  the  room,  was  installed  as  a  cabinet  de  toilette, 
but  it  had  a  divan.  From  the  divan,  behind  which 
was  a  heavily  curtained  window,  you  could  see  right 
through  the  flat  to  the  curtained  window  of  the  sit- 
ting-room. All  the  lights  were  softened  by  paper 
shades  of  a  peculiar  hot  tint  between  Indian  red  and 
carmine,  giving  a  rich,  romantic  effect  to  the  gleam- 
ing pale  enamelled  furniture,  and  to  the  voluptu- 
ous engravings  after  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  and  the 
sweet,  sentimental  engravings  after  Marcus  Stone, 
and  to  the  assorted  knickknacks.  The  flat  had  homo- 
geneity, for  everything  in  it,  except  the  stove,  had 
been  bought  at  one  shop  in  Tottenham  Court  Road 
by  a  landlord  who  knew  his  business.  The  stove, 
which  was  large,  stood  in  the  bedroom  fireplace,  and 
thence  radiated  celestial  comfort  and  security 
throughout  the  home ;  the  stove  was  the  divinity  of 


18  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

the  home  and  Christine  the  priestess ;  she  had  herself 
bought  the  stove,  and  she  understood  its  personality 
— it  was  one  of  your  finite  gods. 

"Will  you  take  something?"  she  asked,  the 
hostess. 

Whisky  and  a  siphon  and  glasses  were  on  the  side- 
board. 

"Oh,  no,  thanks!" 

"Not  even  a  cigarette  ?"  Holding  out  the  box  and 
looking  up  at  him,  she  appealed  with  a  long,  anxious 
glance  that  he  should  honour  her  cigarettes. 

"Thank  youl"  he  said.  "I  should  like  a  cigarette 
very  much." 

She  lit  a  match  for  him. 

"But  you — do  you  not  smoke?" 

"Yes.    Sometimes." 

"Try  one  of  mine — for  a  change." 

He  produced  a  long,  thin  gold  cigarette-case, 
stuffed  with  cigarettes. 

She  lit  a  cigarette  from  his. 

"Oh  I"  she  cried  after  a  few  violent  puffs.  "I  like 
enormously  your  cigarettes.  Where  are  they  to  be 
found?" 

"Look!"  said  he.  "I  will  put  these  few  in  your 
box."  And  he  poured  twenty  cigarettes  into  an 
empty  compartment  of  the  box,  which  was  divided 
into  two. 

"Not  all!"  she  protested. 

"Yes." 

"But  I  say  NO!"  she  insisted  with  a  gesture  sud- 
denly firm,  and  put  a  single  cigarette  back  into  his 
case  and  shut  the  case  with  a  snap,  and  herself  re- 


THE  FLAT  19 

turned  it  to  his  pocket.    "One  ought  never  to  be  with- 
out a  cigarette." 

He  said: 

"You  understand  life.  .  .  .  How  nice  it  is  here !" 
He  looked  about  and  then  sighed. 

"But  why  do  you  sigh?" 

"Sigh  of  contentl  I  was  just  thinking  this  place 
would  be  something  else  if  an  English  girl  had  it. 
It  is  curious,  lamentable,  that  English  girls  under- 
stand nothing — certainly  not  love." 

"As  for  that,  I've  always  heard  so." 

"They  understand  nothing.  Not  even  warmth. 
One  is  cold  in  their  rooms." 

"As  for  that — I  mean  warmth — one  may  say  that 
I  understand  it;  I  do." 

"You  understand  more  than  warmth.  What  is 
your  name?" 

"Christine." 

She  was  the  accidental  daughter  of  a  daughter 
of  joy.  The  mother,  as  frequently  happens  in  these 
cases,  dreamed  of  perfect  respectability  for  her  child 
and  kept  Christine  in  the  country  far  away  in  Paris, 
meaning  to  provide  a  good  dowry  in  due  course. 
At  forty-two  she  had  not  got  the  dowry  together, 
nor  even  begun  to  get  it  together,  and  she  was  ill. 
Feckless,  dilatory  and  extravagant,  she  saw  as  in 
a  vision  her  own  shortcomings  and  how  they  might 
involve  disaster  for  Christine.  Christine,  she  per- 
ceived, was  a  girl  imperfectly  educated — for  in  the 
affair  of  Christine's  education  the  mother  had  not 
aimed  high  enough — indolent,  but  economical,  af- 
fectionate, and  with  a  very  great  deal  of  tempera- 


20  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

ment.  Actuated  by  deep  maternal  solicitude,  she 
brought  her  daughter  back  to  Pans,  and  had  her 
inducted  into  the  profession  under  the  most  decent 
auspices.  At  nineteen  Christine's  second  education 
was  complete.  Most  of  it  the  mother  had  left 
to  others,  from  a  sense  of  propriety.  But  she  her- 
self had  instructed  Christine  concerning  the  five 
great  plagues  of  the  profession.  And  also  she  had 
adjured  her  never  to  drink  alcohol  save  profession- 
ally, never  to  invest  in  anything  save  bonds  of  the 
City  of  Paris,  never  to  seek  celebrity,  which  accord- 
ing to  the  mother  meant  ultimate  ruin,  never  to  mix 
intimately  with  other  women.  She  had  expounded 
the  great  theory  that  generosity  towards  men  in 
small  things  is  always  repaid  by  generosity  in  big 
things — and  if  it  is  not  the  loss  is  so  slight!  And 
she  taught  her  the  fundamental  differences  between 
nationalities.  With  a  Russian  you  had  to  eat, 
drink  and  listen.  With  a  German  you  had  to  flatter, 
and  yet  adroitly  insert,  "Do  not  imagine  that  I 
am  here  for  the  fun  of  the  thing."  With  an  Italian 
you  must  begin  with  finance.  With  a  Frenchman 
you  must  discuss  finance  before  it  is  too  late.  With 
an  Englishman  you  must  talk,  for  he  will  not,  but 
in  no  circumstances  touch  finance  until  he  has  men- 
tioned it.  In  each  case  there  was  a  risk,  but  the  risk 
should  be  faced.  The  course  of  instruction  finished, 
Christine's  mother  had  died  with  a  clear  conscience 
and  a  mind  consoled. 

Said  Christine,  conversational,  putting  the  ques- 
tion that  lips  seemed  then  to  articulate  of  them- 


THE  FLAT  21 

selves  in  obedience  to  its  imperious  demand  for 
utterance : 

"How  long  do  you  think  the  war  will  last?"  The 
man  answered  with  serenity: 

"The  war  has  not  begun  yet." 

"How  English  you  are!  But  all  the  same  I 
ask  myself  whether  you  would  say  that  if  you  had 
seen  Belgium.  I  came  here  from  Ostend  last 
month." 

The  man  gazed  at  her  with  new  vivacious  in- 
terest. 

"So  it  is  like  that  that  you  are  here !" 

"But  do  not  let  us  talk  about  it,"  she  added 
quickly  with  a  mournful  smile. 

"No,  nol"  he  agreed. ...  "I  see  you  have  a  piano. 
I  expect  you  are  fond  of  music." 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  fresh,  relieved  tone. 
"Am  I  fond  of  it!  I  adore  it,  quite  simply.  Do 
play  for  me.  Play  a  boston — a  two-step." 

"I  can't,"  he  said. 

"But  you  play.    I  am  sure  of  it." 

"And  you?"  he  parried. 

She  made  a  sad  negative  sign. 

"Well,  I'll  play  something  out  of  'The  Rosen- 
kavalier.' ' 

"Ah!  But  you  are  a  musician!"  She  amiably 
scrutinised  him.  "And  yet — no." 

Smiling,  he,  too,  made  a  sad  negative  sign. 

"The  waltz  out  of  'The  Rosenkavalier,'  eh?" 

"Oh,  yes!  A  waltz.  I  prefer  waltzes  to  any- 
thing." 

As  soon  as  he  had  played  a  few  bars  she  passed 


22  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

demurely  out  of  the  sitting-room,  through  the  main 
part  of  the  bedroom  into  the  cabinet  de  toilette. 
She  moved  about  in  the  cabinet  de  toilette  thinking 
that  the  waltz  out  of  "The  Rosenkavalier"  was  di- 
vinely exciting.  The  delicate  sound  of  her  move- 
ments and  the  plash  of  water  came  to  him  across 
the  Bedroom.  As  he  played  he  threw  a  glance  at  her 
now  and  then ;  he  could  see  well  enough,  but  not  very 
well,  because  the  smoke  of  the  shortening  cigarette 
was  in  his  eyes. 

She  returned  at  length  into  the  sitting-room,  carry- 
ing a  small  silk  bag  about  five  inches  by  three.  The 
waltz  finished. 

"But  you'll  take  cold!"  he  murmured. 

"No.    At  home  I  never  take  cold.    Besides " 

Smiling  at  him  as  he  swung  round  on  the  music- 
stool,  she  undid  the  bag,  and  drew  from  it  some 
folded  stuff  which  she  slowly  shook  out,  rather  in 
the  manner  of  a  conjuror,  until  it  was  revealed  as  a 
full-sized  kimono.  She  laughed. 

"Is  it  not  marvellous?" 

"It  is." 

"That  is  what  I  wear.  In  the  way  of  chiffons 
it  is  the  only  fantasy  I  have  bought  up  to  the 
present  in  London.  Of  course,  clothes — I  have 
been  forced  to  buy  clothes.  It  matches  exquisitely 
the  stockings,  eh?" 

She  slid  her  arms  into  the  sleeves  of  the  trans- 
parency. She  was  a  pretty  and  highly  developed 
girl  of  twenty-six,  short,  still  lissom,  but  with  the, 
fear  of  corpulence  in  her  heart.  She  had  beautiful 
hair  and  beautiful  eyes,  and  she  had  that  pucker 


THE  FLAT  23 

of  the  forehead  denoting,  according  to  circumstances, 
either  some  kindly,  grave  preoccupation  or  a  benevo- 
lent perplexity  about  something  or  other. 

She  went  near  him  and  clasped  hands  round  his 
neck,  and  whispered: 

"Your  waltz  was  adorable.    You  are  an  artist." 
And  with  her  shoulders  she  seemed  to  sketch  the 
movements  of  dancing. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CONFIDENCE 

AFTER  putting  on  his  thick  overcoat  and  one 
glove  he  had  suddenly  darted  to  the  dressing  table 
for  his  watch,  which  he  was  forgetting.  Christine's 
face  showed  sympathetic  satisfaction  that  he  had 
remembered  in  time,  simultaneously  implying  that 
even  if  he  had  not  remembered,  the  watch  would 
have  been  perfectly  safe  till  he  called  for  it.  The 
hour  was  five  minutes  to  midnight.  He  was  just 
going.  Christine  had  dropped  a  little  batch  of  black 
and  red  Treasury  notes  on  to  the  dressing  table  with 
an  indifferent  if  not  perhaps  an  impatient  air,  as 
though  she  held  these  financial  sequels  to  be  a  stain 
on  the  ideal,  a  tedious  necessary,  a  nuisance,  or  sim- 
ply negligible. 

She  kissed  him  good-bye,  and  felt  agreeably  fra- 
gile and  soft  within  the  embrace  of  his  huge,  rough 
overcoat.  And  she  breathed  winningly,  delicately, 
apologetically  into  his  ear: 

"Thou  wilt  give  something  to  the  servant?"  Her 
soft  eyes  seemed  to  say,  "It  is  not  for  myself  that 
I  am  asking,  is  it?" 

He  made  an  easy  philanthropic  gesture  to  indicate 
that  the  servant  would  have  no  reason  to  regret  his 
passage. 

He  opened  the  door  into  the  little  hall,  where  the 

24 


CONFIDENCE  25 

fat  Italian  maid  was  yawning  in  an  atmosphere  com- 
paratively cold,  and  then,  in  a  change  of  purpose,  he 
shut  the  door  again. 

"You  do  not  know  how  I  knew  you  could  not 
have  been  in  London  very  long,"  he  said  confiden- 
tially. 

"No." 

"Because  I  saw  you  in  Paris  one  night  in  July — 
at  the  Marigny  Theatre." 

"Not  at  the  Marigny." 

"Yes.     The  Marigny." 

"It  is  true.  I  recall  it.  I  wore  white  and  a  yellow 
stole." 

"Yes.  You  stood  on  the  seat  at  the  back  of  the 
Promenade  to  see  a  contortionist  girl  better,  and 
then  you  jumped  down.  I  thought  you  were  deli- 
cious— quite  delicious." 

"Thou  flatterest  me.  Thou  sayest  that  to  flatter 
me." 

"No,  no.  I  assure  you  I  went  to  the  Marigny 
every  night  for  five  nights  afterwards  in  order  to 
find  you." 

"But  the  Marigny  is  not  my  regular  music  hall. 
Olympia  is  my  regular  music  hall." 

"I  went  to  Olympia  and  all  the  other  halls,  too, 
each  night." 

"Ah,  yes!  Then  I  must  have  left  Paris.  But 
why,  my  poor  friend,  why  didst  thou  not  speak  to 
me  at  the  Marigny?  I  was  alone." 

"I  don't  know.  I  hesitated.  I  suppose  I  was 
afraid." 

"Thou!" 


26  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"So  to-night  I  was  terribly  content  to  meet  you. 
When  I  saw  that  it  was  really  you  I  could  not  believe 
my  eyes." 

She  understood  now  his  agitation  on  first  accost- 
ing her  in  the  promenade.  The  affair  very  pleas- 
antly grew  more  serious  for  her.  She  liked  him. 
He  had  nice  eyes.  He  was  fairly  tall  and  broadly 
built,  but  not  a  bit  stout.  Neither  dark  nor  blond. 
Not  handsome,  and  yet  .  .  .  Beneath  a  certain 
superficial  freedom,  he  was  reserved.  He  had  beau- 
tiful manners.  He  was  refined,  and  he  was  refined 
in  love;  and  yet  he  knew  something.  She  very 
highly  esteemed  refinement  in  a  man.  She  had  never 
met  a  refined  woman,  and  was  convinced  that  few 
such  existed.  Of  course  he  was  rich.  She  could  be 
quite  sure,  from  his  way  of  handling  money,  that  he 
was  accustomed  to  handling  money.  She  would 
swear  he  was  a  bachelor  merely  on  the  evidence 
of  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  affair  had  lovely  possi- 
bilities. Afraid  to  speak  to  her,  and  then  ran  round 
Paris  after  her  for  five  nights!  Had  he,  then,  had 
the  lightning-stroke  from  her?  It  appeared  so.  And 
why  not?  She  was  not  like  other  girls,  and  this 
she  had  always  known.  She  did  precisely  the  same 
things  as  other  girls  did.  True.  But  somehow, 
subtly,  inexplicably,  when  she  did  them  they  were 
not  the  same  things.  The  proof:  he,  so  refined  and 
distinguished  himself,  had  felt  the  difference.  She 
became  very  tender. 

"To  think,"  she  murmured,  "that  only  on  that 
one  night  in  all  my  life  did  I  go  to  the  Marignyl 
And  you  saw  me  1" 


CONFIDENCE  27 

The  coincidence  frightened  her — she  might  have 
missed  this  nice,  dependable,  admiring  creature  for- 
ever. But  the  coincidence  also  delighted  her, 
strengthening  her  superstition.  The  hand  of  des- 
tiny was  obviously  in  this  affair.  Was  it  not  astound- 
ing that  on  one  night  of  all  nights  he  should  have 
been  at  the  Marigny?  Was  it  not  still  more  astound- 
ing that  on  one  night  of  all  nights  he  should  have 
been  in  the  Promenade  in  Leicester  Square?  .  .  . 
The  affair  was  ordained  since  before  the  beginning 
of  time.  Therefore  it  was  serious. 

"Ah,  my  friend!"  she  said.  "If  only  you  had 
spoken  to  me  that  night  at  the  Marigny,  you  might 
have  saved  me  from  troubles  frightful — fantastic." 

"How?" 

He  had  confided  in  her — and  at  the  right  mo- 
ment. With  her  human  lore  she  could  not  have 
respected  a  man  who  had  begun  by  admitting  to  a 
strange  and  unproved  woman  that  for  five  days  and 
nights  he  had  gone  mad  about  her.  To  do  so 
would  have  been  folly  on  his  part.  But  having 
withheld  his  wild  secret,  he  had  charmingly  showed, 
by  the  gesture  of  opening  and  then  shutting  the  door, 
that  at  last  it  was  too  strong  for  his  control.  Such 
candour  deserved  candour  in  return.  Despite  his 
age,  he  looked  just  then  attractively,  sympathetically 
boyish.  He  was  a  benevolent  creature.  The  re- 
sponsive kindliness  of  his  enquiring  "How?"  was 
beyond  question  genuine.  Once  more,  in  the  warm 
and  dark-glowing  comfort  of  her  home,  the  con- 
trast between  the  masculine,  thick  rough  overcoat 
and  the  feminine,  diaphanous,  useless  kimono  ap- 


28  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

pealed  to  her  soul.    It  seemed  to  justify,  even  to  call 
for,  confidence  from  her  to  him. 

The  Italian  woman  behind  the  door  coughed  im- 
patiently and  was  not  heard. 


CHAPTER  V 

OSTEND 

IN  July  she  had  gone  to  Ostend  with  an  Ameri- 
can. A  gentleman,  but  mad.  One  of  those  men 
with  a  fixed  idea  that  everything  would  always  be 
all  right  and  that  nothing  really  and  permanently 
uncomfortable  could  possibly  happen.  A  very  fair 
man,  with  red  hair,  and  radiating  wrinkles  all  round 
his  eyes — phenomenon  due  to  his  humorous  outlook 
on  the  world.  He  laughed  at  her  because  she  trav- 
elled with  all  her  bonds  of  the  City  of  Paris  on  her 
person.  He  had  met  her  one  night,  and  the  next 
morning  suggested  the  Ostend  excursion.  Too  sud- 
den, too  capricious,  of  course;  but  she  had  always 
desired  to  see  the  cosmopolitanism  of  Ostend.  Trou- 
ville  she  did  not  like,  as  you  had  sand  with  every 
meal  if  you  lived  near  the  front.  Hotel  Astoria  at 
Ostend.  Complete  flat  in  the  hotel.  Very  chic.  The 
red-haired  one,  the  rouquin,  had  broad  ideas,  very 
broad  ideas,  of  what  was  due  to  a  woman.  In  fact, 
one  might  say  that  he  carried  generosity  in  details 
to  excess.  But  naturally  with  Americans  it  was 
necessary  to  be  surprised  at  nothing.  The  rouquin 
said  steadily  that  war  would  not  break  out.  He 
said  so  until  the  day  on  which  it  broke  out.  He 
then  became  a  Turk.  Yes,  a  Turk.  He  assumed 

29 


30  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

rights  over  her,  the  rights  of  protection,  but  very 
strange  rights.  He  would  not  let  her  try  to  return 
to  Paris.  He  said  the  Germans  might  get  to  Paris, 
but  to  Ostend,  never — because  of  the  English !  Dif- 
ficult to  believe,  but  he  had  locked  her  up  in  the 
complete  flat.  The  Ostend  season  had  collapsed — 
pluff — like  that.  The  hotel  staff  vanished  almost 
entirely.  One  or  two  old  fat  Belgian  women  on 
the  bedroom  floors — that  seemed  to  be  all.  The 
rouquin  was  exquisitely  polite,  but  very  firm.  In 
fine,  he  was  a  master.  It  was  astonishing  what 
he  did.  They  were  the  sole  remaining  guests  in 
the  Astoria.  And  they  remained  because  he  re- 
fused to  permit  the  management  to  turn  him  out. 
Weeks  passed.  Yes,  weeks.  English  forces  came 
to  Ostend.  Marvellous !  Among  nations  there  was 
none  like  the  English.  She  did  not  see  them  her- 
self. She  was  ill.  The  rouquin  had  told  her  that 
she  was  ill  when  she  was  not  ill,  but  lo !  the  next  day 
she  was  ill — oh,  a  long  time.  The  rouquin  told  her 
the  news — battle  of  the  Marne  and  all  species  of 
glorious  deeds.  An  old  fat  Belgian  told  her  a  dif- 
ferent kind  of  news.  The  stories  of  the  fall  of 
Liege,  Namur,  Brussels,  Antwerp.  The  massacres 
at  Aerschot,  at  Louvain.  Terrible  stories  that  trav- 
elled from  mouth  to  mouth  among  women.  There 
was  always  rape  and  blood  and  filth  mingled.  Stories 
of  a  frightful  fascination  .  .  .  unrepeatable!  Ah! 
The  rouquin  had  informed  her  one  day  that  the 
Belgin  Government  had  come  to  Ostend.  Proof 
enough,  according  to  him,  that  Ostend  could  not 
be  captured  by  the  Germans !  After  that  he  had  said 


OSTEND  31 

nothing  about  the  Belgian  Government  for  many 
days.  And  then  one  day  he  had  informed  her  casu- 
ally that  the  Belgian  Government  was  about  to  leave 
Ostend  by  steamer.  But  days  earlier  the  old  fat 
woman  had  told  her  that  the  German  staff  had 
ordered  seventy-five  rooms  at  the  Hotel  des  Postes 
at  Ghent.  Seventy-five  rooms.  And  that  in  the 
space  of  a  few  hours  Ghent  had  become  a  city  of 
the  dead.  .  .  .  Thousands  of  refugees  in  Ostend. 
Thousands  of  escaped  virgins.  Thousands  of 
wounded  soldiers.  Often,  the  sound  of  guns  all  day 
and  all  night.  And  in  the  daytime  occasionally,  a 
sharp  sound,  very  loud;  that  meant  that  a  German 
aeroplane  was  over  the  town — killing.  .  .  .  Plenty 
to  kill.  Ostend  was  always  full,  behind  the  Digue, 
and  yet  people  were  always  leaving — by  steamer. 
Steamers  taken  by  assault.  At  first  there  had  been 
formalities,  permits,  passports.  But  when  one 
steamer  had  been  taken  by  assault — no  more  formal- 
ities !  In  trying  to  board  the  steamers  people  were 
drowned.  They  fell  into  the  water  and  nobody  trou- 
bled— so  said  the  old  woman.  Christine  was  better; 
desired  to  rise.  The  rouquin  said  No,  not  yet.  He 
would  believe  naught.  And  now  he  believed  one 
thing,  and  it  filled  his  mind — that  German  subma- 
rines sank  all  refugee  ships  in  the  North  Sea.  Proof 
of  the  folly  of  leaving  Ostend.  Yet  immediately 
afterwards  he  came  and  told  her  to  get  up.  That 
is  to  say,  she  had  been  up  for  several  days  but  not 
outside.  He  told  her  to  come  away,  come  away. 
She  had  only  summer  clothes,  and  it  was  mid-Octo- 
ber. What  a  climate,  Ostend  in  October!  The  old 


32  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

woman  said  that  thousands  of  parcels  of  clothes  for 
refugees  had  been  sent  by  generous  England.  She 
got  a  parcel;  she  had  means  of  getting  it.  She 
opened  it  with  pride  in  the  bedroom  of  the  flat.  It 
contained  eight  corsets  and  a  ball-dress.  A  droll 
race,  all  the  same,  the  English.  Had  they  no  imagi- 
nation? But,  no  doubt,  society  women  were  the 
same  everywhere.  It  was  notorious  that  in 
France  .  .  . 

Christine  went  forth  in  her  summer  clothes.  The 
rouquin  had  got  an  old  horse-carriage.  He  gave 
her  much  American  money — or,  rather,  cheques — 
which,  true  enough,  she  had  since  cashed  with  no 
difficulty  in  London.  They  had  to  leave  the  car- 
riage. The  station  square  was  full  of  guns  and 
women  and  children  and  bundles.  Yes,  together 
with  a  few  men.  She  spent  the  whole  night  in  the 
station  square  with  the  rouquin,  in  her  summer 
clothes  and  his  overcoat.  At  six  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing it  was  already  dark.  A  night  interminable.  Ba- 
bies crying.  One  heard  that  at  the  other  end  of  the 
square  a  baby  had  been  born.  She,  Christine,  sat 
next  to  a  young  mother  with  a  baby.  Both  mother 
and  baby  had  the  right  arm  bandaged.  They  had 
both  been  shot  through  the  arm  with  the  same  bullet. 
It  was  near  Aerschot.  The  young  woman  also  told 
her.  .  .  .  No,  she  could  not  relate  that  to  an 
Englishman.  Happily  it  did  not  rain.  But  the  wind 
and  the  cold!  In  the  morning  the  rouquin  put  her 
on  to  a  fishing-vessel.  She  had  nothing  but  her  bonds 
of  the  City  of  Paris  and  her  American  cheques.  The 
crush  was  frightful.  The  captain  of  the  fishing- 


OSTEND  33 

vessel,  however,  comprehended  what  discipline  was. 
He  made  much  money.  The  rouquin  would  not 
come.  He  said  he  was  an  American  citizen  and  had 
all  his  papers.  For  the  rest,  the  captain  would  not 
let  him  come,  though  doubtless  the  captain  could 
have  been  bribed.  As  they  left  the  harbour,  with 
other  trawlers,  they  could  see  the  quays  all  covered 
with  the  disappointed,  waiting.  Somebody  in  the 
boat  said  that  the  Germans  had  that  morning 

reached She  forgot  the  name  of  the  place, 

but  it  was  the  next  village  to  Ostend  on  the  Bruges 
road.  Thus  Christine  parted  from  the  rouquin. 
Mad !  Always  wrong,  even  about  the  German  sub- 
marines. But  chic.  Truly  chic. 

What  a  voyage !  What  adventures  with  the  char- 
itable people  in  England!  People  who  resembled 
nothing  else  on  earth!  People  who  did  not  under- 
stand what  life  was.  .  .  .  No  understanding  of 
that  which  it  is — life!  In  fine  .  .  .  !  However, 
she  should  stay  in  England.  It  was  the  only  country 
in  which  one  could  have  confidence.  She  was  trying 
to  sell  the  furniture  of  her  flat  in  Paris.  Complica- 
tions !  Under  the  emergency  law  she  was  not  obliged 
to  pay  her  rent  to  the  landlord;  but  if  she  removed 
her  furniture  then  she  would  have  to  pay  the  rent. 
What  did  it  matter,  though?  Besides,  she  might 
not  be  able  to  sell  her  furniture  after  all.  Re- 
markably few  women  in  Paris  at  that  moment  were 
in  a  financial  state  to  buy  furniture.  Ah  no ! 

"But  I  have  not  told  you  the  tenth  part!"  said 
Christine. 

"Terrible!     Terrible!"  murmured  the  man. 


34  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

All  the  heavy  sorrow  of  the  world  lay  on  her 
puckered  brow,  and  floated  in  her  dark  glistening 
eyes.  Then  she  smiled,  sadly  but  with  courage. 

"I  will  come  to  see  you  again,"  said  the  man 
comfortingly.  "Are  you  here  in  the  afternoons?" 

"Every  afternoon,  naturally." 

"Well,  I  will  come — not  to-morrow — the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

Already,  long  before,  interrupting  the  buttoning 
of  his  collar,  she  had  whispered  softly,  persuasively, 
clingingly,  in  the  classic  manner : 

"Thou  are  content,  cheri?     Thou  wilt  return?" 

And  he  had  said: 

"That  goes  without  saying." 

But  not  with  quite  the  same  conviction  as  he  now 
used  in  speaking  definitely  of  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  The  fact  was,  he  was  moved; 
she  too.  She  had  been  right  not  to  tell  the  story 
earlier,  and  equally  right  to  tell  it  before  he  de- 
parted. Some  men,  most  men,  hated  to  hear  any 
tale  of  real  misfortune,  at  any  moment,  from  a 
woman  because,  of  course,  it  diverted  their  thoughts. 

In  thus  departing  at  once  the  man  showed  char- 
acteristic tact.  Her  recital  left  nothing  to  be  said. 
TEey  kissed  again,  rather  like  comrades.  Christine 
was  still  the  vessel  of  the  heavy  sorrow  of  the 
world,  but  in  the  kiss  and  in  their  glances  was  an 
implication  that  the  effective,  triumphant  antidote  to 
sorrow  might  be  found  in  a  mutual  trust.  He  opened 
the  door.  The  Italian  woman,  yawning  and  with 
her  hand  open,  was  tenaciously  waiting. 


OSTEND  35 

Alone,  carefully  refolding  the  kimono  in  its  origi- 
nal creases,  Christine  wondered  what  the  man's  name 
was.  She  felt  that  the  mysterious  future  might  soon 
disclose  a  germ  of  happiness. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ALBANY 

G.  J.  HOAPE — he  was  usually  addressed  as 
"G.  J."  by  his  friends,  and  always  referred  to  as 
"G.  J."  by  both  friends  and  acquaintances — woke 
up  finally  in  the  bedroom  of  his  flat  with  the  thought: 

"To-day  I  shall  see  her." 

He  inhabited  one  of  the  three  flats  at  the  extreme 
northern  end  of  the  Albany,  Piccadilly,  W.i.  The 
flat  was  strangely  planned.  Its  shape  as  a  whole 
was  that  of  a  cube.  Imagine  the  cube  to  be  divided 
perpendicularly  into  two  very  unequal  parts.  The 
larger  part,  occupying  nearly  two-thirds  of  the  en- 
tire cubic  space,  was  the  drawing-room,  a  noble 
chamber,  large  and  lofty.  The  smaller  part  was 
cut  horizontally  into  two  storeys.  The  lower  storey 
comprised  a  very  small  hall,  a  fair  bathroom,  the 
tiniest  staircase  in  London,  and  G.  J.'s  very  small 
bedroom.  The  upper  storey  comprised  a  very  small 
dining  room,  the  kitchen,  and  servants'  quarters. 

The  door  between  the  bedroom  and  the  drawing- 
room,  left  open  in  the  night  for  ventilation,  had  been 
softly  closed  as  usual  during  G.  J.'s  final  sleep,  and 
the  bedroom  was  in  absolute  darkness  save  for  a 
faint  grey  gleam  over  the  valance  of  the  window  cur- 
tains. G.  J.  could  think.  He  wondered  whether  he 

36 


THE  ALBANY  37 

was  in  love.  He  hoped  he  was  in  love,  and  the  fact 
that  the  woman  who  attracted  him  was  a  courtesan 
did  not  disturb  him  in  the  least. 

He  was  nearing  fifty  years  of  age.  He  had  casu- 
ally known  hundreds  of  courtesans  in  sundry  capitals, 
a  few  of  them  very  agreeable;  also  a  number  of 
women  calling  themselves,  sometimes  correctly,  ac- 
tresses, all  of  whom,  for  various  reasons  which  need 
not  be  given,  had  proved  very  unsatisfactory.  But 
he  had  never  loved — unless  it  might  be,  mildly,  Con- 
cepcion,  and  Concepcion  was  now  a  war  bride.  He 
wanted  to  love.  He  had  never  felt  about  any  woman, 
not  even  about  Concepcion,  as  he  felt  about  the 
woman  seen  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  Marigny  The- 
atre and  then  for  five  successive  nights  vainly 
searched  for  in  all  the  chief  music  halls  of  Paris.  (A 
nice  name,  Christine !  It  suited  her.)  He  had  given 
her  up — never  expected  to  catch  sight  of  her  again; 
but  she  had  remained  a  steadfast  memory,  sad  and 
charming.  The  encounter  in  the  Promenade  in 
Leicester  Square  was  such  a  piece  of  heavenly  and 
incredible  luck  that  it  had,  at  the  moment,  posi- 
tively made  him  giddy.  The  first  visit  to  Christine's 
flat  had  beatified  and  stimulated  him.  Would  the 
second?  Anyhow,  she  was  the  most  alluring  woman 
— and  yet  apparently  of  dependable  character! — 
he  had  ever  met.  No  other  consideration  counted 
with  him. 

There  was  a  soft  knock;  the  door  was  pushed, 
and  wavy  reflections  of  the  drawing-room  fire  played 
on  the  corner  of  the  bedroom  ceiling.  Mrs.  Braid- 
ing came  in.  G.  J.  had  known  it  was  she  by  the  ca- 


38  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

ressing  quality  of  the  knock.  Mrs.  Braiding  was 
his  cook  and  the  wife  of  his  "man."  It  was  not  her 
place  to  come  in,  but  occasionally,  because  something 
had  happened  to  Braiding,  she  did  come  in.  She 
drew  the  curtains  apart,  and  the  day  of  Vigo  Street, 
pale,  dirty,  morose,  feebly  and  perfunctorily  took 
possession  of  the  bedroom.  Mrs.  Braiding,  having 
drawn  the  curtains,  returned  to  the  door  and  from 
the  doorway  said: 

"Breakfast  is  practically  ready,  sir." 

G.  J.  perceived  that  this  was  one  of  her  brave, 
resigned  mornings.  Since  August  she  had  borne 
the  entire  weight  of  the  war  on  her  back,  and  some- 
times the  burden  would  overpower  her,  but  never 
quite.  G.  J.  switched  on  the  light,  arose  from  his 
bed,  assumed  his  dressing  gown,  and,  gazing  with 
accustomed  pleasure  round  the  bedroom,  saw  that 
it  was  perfect. 

He  had  furnished  his  flat  in  the  Regency  style 
of  the  first  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century,  as  ma- 
tured by  George  Smith,  "upholder  extraordinary 
to  His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales."  The 
Pavilion  at  Brighton  had  given  the  original  idea  to 
G.  J.,  who  saw  in  it  the  solution  of  the  problem  of 
combining  the  somewhat  massive  dignity  suitable  to 
a  bachelor  of  middling  age  with  the  bright,  uncon- 
querable colours  which  the  eternal  twilight  of  Lon- 
don demands. 

His  dome  bed  was  yellow  as  to  its  upper  works, 
with  crimson  valances  above  and  yellow  valances 
below.  The  yellow-lined  crimson  curtains  (of  course 
never  closed)  had  green  cords  and  tassels,  and  the 


THE  ALBANY  39 

counterpane  was  yellow.  This  bed  was  a  modest 
sample  of  the  careful  and  uncompromising  recon- 
stitution  of  a  period  which  he  had  everywhere  car- 
ried out  in  his  abode. 

The  drawing-room,  with  its  moulded  ceiling  and 
huge  recessed  window,  had  presented  an  admirable 
field  for  connoisseurship.  Here  the  clash  of  rich 
primary  colours,  the  perpendiculars  which  began  with 
bronze  girls'  heads  and  ended  with  bronze  girls' 
feet  or  animals'  claws,  the  vast  flat  surfaces  of  fur- 
niture, the  stiff  curves  of  wood  and  of  drapery,  the 
morbid  rage  for  solidity  which  would  employ  a  can- 
delabrum weighing  five  hundredweight  to  hold  a  sin- 
gle wax  candle,  produced  a  real  and  imposing  effect 
of  style;  it  was  a  style  debased,  a  style  which  was 
shedding  the  last  graces  of  French  Empire  in  order 
soon  to  appeal  to  a  Victoria  determined  to  be  utterly 
English  and  good ;  but  it  was  a  style.  And  G.  J.  had 
scamped  no  detail.  Even  the  pictures  were  hung 
with  thick  tasselled  cords  of  the  Regency.  The 
drawing-room  was  a  triumph. 

Do  not  conceive  that  G.  J.  had  lost  his  head  about 
furniture  and  that  his  notion  of  paradise  was  an 
endless  series  of  second-hand  shops.  He  had  an 
admirable  balance;  and  he  held  that  a  man  might 
make  a  faultless  interior  for  himself  and  yet  not 
necessarily  lose  his  balance.  He  resented  being 
called  a  specialist  in  furniture.  He  regarded  himself 
as  an  amateur  of  life,  and,  if  a  specialist  in  anything, 
as  a  specialist  in  friendships.  Yet  he  was  a  solitary 
man  (liking  solitude  without  knowing  that  he  liked 
it),  and  in  the  midst  of  the  perfections  which  he 


40  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

had  created  he  sometimes  gloomily  thought :  "What 
in  the  name  of  God  am  I  doing  on  this  earth?" 

He  went  into  the  drawing-room,  and  there,  by 
the  fire  and  in  front  of  a  formidable  blue  chair  whose 
arms  developed  into  the  grinning  heads  of  bronze 
lions,  stood  the  lacquered  table  consecrated  to  his 
breakfast  tray;  and  his  breakfast  tray,  with  news- 
paper and  correspondence,  had  been  magically 
placed  thereon  as  though  by  invisible  hands.  And 
on  one  arm  of  the  easy-chair  lay  the  rug  which,  be- 
cause a  dressing  gown  does  not  button  all  the  way 
down,  he  put  over  his  knees  while  breakfasting  in 
winter.  Yes,  he  admitted  with  pleasure  that  he  was 
"well  served."  Before  eating  he  opened  the  piano — 
a  modern  instrument  concealed  in  an  ingeniously  con- 
fected  Regency  case — and  played  with  taste  a  Bach 
prelude  and  fugue. 

His  was  not  the  standardised  and  habituated  kind 
of  musical  culture  which  takes  a  Bach  prelude  and 
fugue  every  morning  before  breakfast  with  or  with- 
out a  glass  of  Lithia  water  or  fizzy  saline.  He  did, 
however,  customarily  begin  the  day  at  the  piano,  and 
on  this  particular  morning  he  happened  to  play  a 
Bach  prelude  and  fugue. 

And  as  he  played  he  congratulated  himself  on 
not  having  gone  to  see  Christine  in  the  Promenade 
on  the  previous  night,  as  impatience  had  tempted 
him  to  do.  Such  a  procedure  would  have  been  an 
error  in  worldliness  and  bad  from  every  point  of 
view.  He  had  wisely  rejected  the  temptation. 

In  the  deep  blue  armchair,  with  the  rug  over 
his  knees  and  one  hand  on  a  lion's  head,  he  glanced 


THE  ALBANY  41 

first  at  the  opened  Times,  because  of  the  war. 
Among  the  few  letters  was  one  with  the  heading 
of  the  Reveille  Motor  Horn  Company,  Limited. 

G.  J.,  like  his  father,  had  been  a  solicitor.  When 
he  was  twenty-five  his  father,  a  widower,  had  died 
and  left  him  a  respectable  fortune  and  a  very  good 
practice.  He  sold  half  the  practice  to  an  incoming 
partner,  and  four  years  later  he  sold  the  other  half 
of  the  practice  to  the  same  man.  At  thirty  he  was 
free,  and  this  result  had  been  attained  through 
his  frank  negative  answer  to  the  question,  "The  law 
bores  me — is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  let  it 
continue  to  bore  me?"  There  was  no  reason.  In- 
stead of  the  law  he  took  up  life.  Of  business  preoc- 
cupations naught  remained  but  his  investments.  He 
possessed  a  gift  for  investing  money.  He  had  helped 
the  man  who  had  first  put  the  Reveille  Motor  Horn 
on  the  market.  He  had  had  a  mighty  holding  of 
shares  in  the  Reveille  Syndicate,  Limited,  which  had 
so  successfully  promoted  the  Reveille  Motor  Horn 
Company,  Limited.  And  in  the  latter,  too,  he  held 
many  shares.  The  Reveille  Motor  Horn  Company 
had  prospered  and  had  gone  into  the  manufacture  of 
speedometers,  illuminating  outfits,  and  all  manner 
of  motor-car  accessories. 

On  the  outbreak  of  war  G.  J.  had  given  himself 
up  for  lost.  "This  is  the  end,"  he  had  said,  as  a 
member  of  the  sore-shaken  investing  public.  He  had 
felt  sick  under  the  region  of  the  heart.  In  particular 
he  had  feared  for  his  Reveille  shares.  No  one 
would  want  to  buy  expensive  motor  horns  in  the 
midst  of  the  greatest  war  that  the  world,  etc.,  etc. 


42  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Still  the  Reveille  Company,  after  sustaining  the 
shock,  had  somehow  continued  to  do  a  pretty  good 
business.  It  had  patriotically  offered  its  plant  and 
services  to  the  War  Office,  and  had  been  repulsed 
with  contumely  and  ignominy.  The  War  Office  had 
most  caustically  intimated  to  the  Reveille  Company 
that  it  had  and  never  under  any  conceivable  cir- 
cumstances could  have  any  use  whatever  for  the 
Reveille  Company,  and  that  the  Reveille  Company 
was  a  forward  and  tedious  jackanapes,  unworthy 
even  of  an  articulate  rebuff.  Now  the  autograph 
letter  with  the  Reveille  note-heading  was  written  by 
the  managing  director  (who  represented  G.  J.'s  in- 
terests on  the  Board),  and  it  stated  that  the  War 
Office  had  been  to  the  Reveille  Company,  and  im- 
plored it  to  enlarge  itself,  and  given  it  vast  orders 
at  grand  prices  for  all  sorts  of  things  that  it  had 
never  made  before.  The  profits  of  1915  would  be 
doubled,  if  not  trebled — perhaps  quadrupled.  G.  J. 
was  relieved,  uplifted;  and  he  sniggered  at  his  ter- 
rible forebodings  of  August  and  September.  Ruin? 
He  was  actually  going  to  make  money  out  of  the 
greatest  war  that  the  world,  etc.,  etc.  And  why 
not.  Somebody  had  to  make  money,  and  somebody 
had  to  pay  for  the  war  in  income  tax.  For  the  first 
time  the  incubus  of  the  war  seemed  lighter  upon 
G.  J.  And  also  he  need  feel  no  slightest  concern 
about  the  financial  aspect  of  any  possible  develop- 
ments of  the  Christine  adventure.  He  had  a  very 
clear  and  undeniable  sensation  of  positive  happi- 
ness. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FOR   THE    EMPIRE 

MRS.  BRAIDING  came  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
he  wondered,  paternally,  why  she  was  so  fidgety 
and  why  her  tranquillising  mate  had  not  appeared. 
To  the  careless  observer  she  was  a  cheerful  woman, 
but  the  temple  of  her  brightness  was  reared  over 
a  dark  and  frightful  crypt  in  which  the  demons  of 
doubt,  anxiety,  and  despair  year  after  year  dragged 
at  their  chains,  intimidating  hope.  Slender,  small, 
and  neat,  she  passed  her  life  in  bravely  fronting 
the  shapes  of  disaster  with  an  earnest,  vivacious, 
upturned  face.  She  was  thirty-five,  and  her  aspect 
recalled  the  pretty,  respected  lady's  maid  which  she 
had  been  before  Braiding  got  her  and  knocked  some 
nonsense  out  of  her  and  turned  her  into  a  wife. 

G.  J.,  still  paternally,  but  firmly,  took  her  up  at 
once. 

"I  say,  Mrs.  Braiding,  what  about  this  dish- 
cover?" 

He  lifted  the  article,  of  which  the  copper  was  be- 
ginning to  show  through  the  Sheffield  plating. 

"Yes,  sir.  It  does  look  rather  impoverished, 
doesn't  it?" 

"But  I  told  Braiding  to  use  the  new  toast  dish  I 
bought  last  week  but  one." 

"Did  you,  sir?     I  was  very  happy  about  the  new 

43 


44  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

one  as  soon  as  I  saw  it,  but  Braiding  never  gave  me 
your  instructions  in  regard  to  it."  She  glanced  at 
the  cabinet  in  which  the  new  toast  dish  reposed  with 
other  antique  metal-work.  "Braiding's  been  rather 
upset  this  last  few  days,  sir." 

"What  about?" 

"This  recruiting,  sir.  Of  course,  you  are  aware 
he's  decided  on  it." 

"I'm  not  aware  of  anything  of  the  sort,"  said 
G.  J.  rather  roughly,  perhaps,  to  hide  his  sudden 
emotion,  perhaps  to  express  his  irritation  at  Mrs. 
Braiding's  strange  habit  of  pretending  that  the  most 
startling  pieces  of  news  were  matters  of  common 
knowledge. 

"Well,  sir,  of  course  you  were  out  most  of  yes- 
terday, and  you  dined  at  the  club.  Braiding  at- 
tended at  a  recruiting  office  yesterday,  sir.  He  stood 
three  hours  in  the  crowd  outside  because  there  was 
no  room  inside,  and  then  he  stood  over  two  hours 
in  a  passage  inside  before  his  turn  came,  and  noth- 
ing to  eat  all  day,  or  drink  either.  And  when  his 
turn  came  and  they  asked  him  his  age,  he  said 
'thirty-six,'  and  the  person  was  very  angry  and  said 
he  hadn't  any  time  to  waste,  and  Braiding  had  better 
go  outside  again  and  consider  whether  he  hadn't 
made  a  mistake  about  his  age.  So  Braiding  went 
outside  and  considered  that  his  age  was  only  thirty- 
three  after  all,  but  he  couldn't  get  in  again,  not  by 
any  means,  so  he  just  came  back  here  and  I  gave  him 
a  good  tea,  and  he  needed  it,  sir." 

"But  he  saw  me  last  night,  and  he  never  said 
anything!" 


FOR  THE  EMPIRE  45 

"Yes,  sir,"  Mrs.  Braiding  admitted  with  pain. 
"I  asked  him  if  he  had  told  you,  and  he  said  he 
hadn't  and  that  I  must." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"He  went  off  early  sir,  so  as  to  get  a  good  place. 
I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he's  in  the  army  by 
this  time.  I  know  it's  not  the  right  way  of  going 
about  things,  and  Braiding's  only  excuse  is  it's  for 
the  Empire.  When  it's  a  question  of  the  Empire, 
sir  .  .  ."  At  that  instant  the  white  man's  burden 
was  Mrs.  Braiding's,  and  the  glance  of  her  serious 
face  showed  what  the  crushing  strain  of  it  was. 

"I  think  he  might  have  told  me." 

"Well,  sir.  I'm  very  sorry.  Very  sorry.  .  .  . 
But  you  know  what  Braiding  is." 

G.  J.  felt  that  that  was  just  what  he  did  not  know, 
or  at  any  rate  had  not  hitherto  known.  He  was 
hurt  by  Braiding's  conduct.  He  had  always  treated 
Braiding  as  a  friend.  They  had  daily  discussed  the 
progress  of  the  war.  On  the  previous  night  Braid- 
ing, in  all  the  customary  sedateness  of  black  coat  and 
faintly  striped  trousers,  had  behaved  just  as  usual  I 
It  was  astounding.  G.  J.  began  to  incline  towards 
the  views  of  certain  of  his  friends  about  the  utter 
incomprehensibility  of  the  servile  classes — views 
which  he  had  often  annoyed  them  by  traversing. 
Yes;  it  was  astounding.  All  this  martial  imperial- 
ism seething  in  the  depths  of  Braiding,  and  G.  J. 
never  suspecting  the  ferment !  Exceedingly  difficult 
to  conceive  Braiding  as  a  soldier!  He  was  the  Al- 
bany valet,  and  Albany  valets  were  Albany  valets  and 
naught  else. 


46  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Mrs.  Braiding  continued: 

"It's  very  inconsiderate  to  you,  sir.  That's  a 
point  that  is  appreciated  by  both  Braiding  and  I. 
But  let  us  frevently  hope  it  won't  be  for  long,  sir. 
The  consensus  of  opinion  seems  to  be  we  shall  be 
in  Berlin  in  the  spring.  And  in  the  meantime,  I 
think" — she  smiled  an  appeal — "I  can  manage  for 
you  by  myself,  if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  let  me." 

"Oh!  It's  not  that,"  said  G.  J.  carelessly.  "I 
expect  you  can  manage  all  right." 

"Oh!"  cried  she.  "I  know  how  you  feel  about 
it,  sir,  and  I'm  very  sorry.  And  at  best  it's  bound 
to  be  highly  inconvenient  for  a  gentlemen  like  your^ 
self,  sir.  I  said  to  Braiding,  'You're  taking  advan- 
tage  of  Mr.  Hoape's  good  nature,'  that's  what  I 
said  to  Braiding,  and  he  couldn't  deny  it.  However, 
sir,  if  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  try  what  I  can 
do  by  myself >" 

"I  tell  you  that'll  be  all  right,"  he  stopped  her. 

Braiding,  his  mainstay,  was  irrevocably  gone.  He 
realised  that,  and  it  was  a  severe  blow.  He  must  ac- 
cept it.  As  for  Mrs.  Braiding  managing,  she  would 
manage  in  a  kind  of  way,  but  the  risks  to  Regency 
furniture  and  china  would  be  grave.  She  did  not 
understand  Regency  furniture  and  china  as  Braiding 
did;  no  woman  could.  Braiding  had  been  as  much 
a  "find"  as  the  dome  bed  or  the  unique  bookcase 
which  bore  the  names  of  "Homer"  and  "Virgil"  in 
bronze  characters  on  its  outer  wings.  Also,  G.  J. 
had  a  hundred  little  ways  about  neckties  and  about 
trouser-stretching  which  he,  G.  J.,  would  have  to 
teach  Mrs.  Braiding.  Still  the  war  .  .  . 


FOR  THE  EMPIRE  47 

When  she  was  gone  he  stood  up  and  brushed  the 
crumbs  from  his  dressing-gown,  and  emitted  a  short, 
harsh  laugh.  He  was  laughing  at  himself.  Regency 
furniture  and  china !  Neckties !  Trouser-stretch- 
ing !  In  the  next  room  was  a  youngish  woman  whose 
minstrel 'boy  to  the  war  had  gone — gone,  though  he 
might  be  only  in  the  next  street !  And  had  she  said 
a  word  about  her  feelings  as  a  wife?  Not  a  word! 
But  dozens  of  words  about  the  inconvenience  to  the 
god-like  employer!  She  had  apologised  to  him  be- 
cause Braiding  had  departed  to  save  the  Empire 
without  first  asking  his  permission.  It  was  not 
merely  astounding — it  flabbergasted.  He  had  al- 
ways felt  that  there  was  something  fundamentally 
wrong  in  the  social  fabric,  and  he  had  long  had  a  pre- 
occupation to  the  effect  that  it  was  his  business,  his, 
to  take  a  share  in  finding  out  what  was  wrong  and  in 
discovering  and  applying  a  cure.  This  preoccupa- 
tion had  worried  him,  scarcely  perceptibly,  like  the 
delicate  oncoming  of  neuralgia.  There  must  be 
something  wrong  when  a  member  of  one  class  would 
behave  to  a  member  of  another  class  as  Mrs, 
Braiding  behaved  to  him — without  protest  from 
him. 

"Mrs.  Braiding!"  he  called  out. 

"Yes,  sir."  She  almost  ran  back  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"When  shall  you  be  seeing  your  husband?"  At 
least  he  would  remind  her  that  she  had  a  husband. 

"I  haven't  an  idea,  sir." 

"Well,  when  you  do,  tell  him  that  I  want  to  speak 


48  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

to  him ;  and  you  can  tell  him  I  shall  pay  you  half  his 
wages  in  addition  to  your  own." 

Her  gratitude  filled  him  with  secret  fury. 

He  said  to  himself: 

"Futile — these  grand  gestures  about  wages." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BOOTS 

IN  the  very  small  hall  G.  J.  gazed  at  himself  in  the 
mirror  that  was  nearly  as  large  as  the  bathroom 
door,  to  which  it  was  attached,  and  which  it  ingeni- 
ously masked. 

Although  Mrs.  Braiding  was  present,  holding  his 
ebony  stick,  he  carefully  examined  his  face  and  ap- 
pearance without  the  slightest  self-consciousness. 
Nor  did  Mrs.  Braiding's  demeanour  indicate  that 
in  her  opinion  G.  J.  was  behaving  in  a  manner  ec- 
centric or  incorrect.  He  was  dressed  in  mourning. 
Honestly  he  did  not  believe  that  he  looked  anywhere 
near  fifty.  His  face  was  worn  by  the  friction  of  the 
world,  especially  under  the  eyes,  but  his  eyes  were 
youthful,  and  his  hair  and  moustache  and  short, 
fine  beard  scarcely  tinged  with  grey.  His  features 
showed  benevolence,  with  a  certain  firmness,  and 
they  had  the  refinement  which  comes  of  half  a  cen- 
tury's instinctive  avoidance  of  excess.  Still,  he  was 
beginning  to  feel  his  age.  He  moved  more^slowly; 
he  sat  down,  instead  of  standing  up,  at  the  dressing 
table.  And  he  was  beginning  also  to  take  a  pride  in 
mentioning  these  changes  and  in  the  fact  that  he 
would  be  fifty  on  his  next  birthday.  And  when  talk- 
ing to  men  under  thirty,  or  even  under  forty,  he 

49 


50  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

would  say  in  a  tone  mingling  condescension  and  envy : 
"But,  of  course,  you're  young." 

He  departed,  remarking  that  he  should  not  be  in 
for  lunch  and  might  not  be  in  for  dinner,  and  he 
walked  down  the  covered  way  to  the  Albany  Court- 
yard, and  was  approved  by  the  Albany  porters  as 
a  resident  handsomely  conforming  to  the  traditional 
high  standard  set  by  the  Albany  for  its  residents.  He 
crossed  Piccadilly,  and  as  he  did  so  he  saw  a  couple 
of  jolly  fine  girls,  handsome,  stylish,  independent 
of  carriage,  swinging  freely  along  and  intimately 
talking  with  that  mien  of  experience  and  broad- 
mindedness  which  some  girls  manage  to  wear  in  the 
streets.  One  of  them  in  particular  appealed  to  him. 
He  thought  how  different  they  were  from  Christine. 
He  had  dreamt  of  just  such  girls  as  they  were,  and 
yet  now  Christine  filled  the  whole  of  his  mind. 

"You  can't  foresee,"  he  thought. 

He  dipped  down  into  the  extraordinary  rectangle 
of  St.  James's,  where  he  was  utterly  at  home.  A 
strange  architecture,  parsimoniously  plain  on  the 
outside,  indeed  carrying  the  Oriental  scorn  for 
merely  external  effect  to  a  point  reachable  only  by  a 
race  at  once  hypocritical  and  madly  proud.  The 
shabby  plainness  of  Wren's  church  well  typified  all 
the  parochial  parsimony.  The  despairing  architect 
had  been  so  pinched  by  his  employers  in  the  matter 
of  ornament  that  on  the  whole  of  the  northern  fa- 
c,ade  there  was  only  one  of  his  favourite  cherub's 
heads!  What  a  parish  1 

It  was  a  parish  of  flat  brick  walls  and  brass  door- 
knobs and  brass  plates.  And  the  first  commandment 


BOOTS  51 

was  to  polish  every  brass  door  knob  and  every 
brass  plate  every  morning.  What  happened  in  the 
way  of  disfigurement  by  polishing  paste  to  the  sur- 
rounding brick  or  wood  had  no  importance.  The 
conventions  of  the  parish  had  no  eye  save  for  brass 
door  knobs  and  brass  plates,  which  were  maintained 
daily  in  effulgence  by  a  vast  early-rising  population. 
Recruiting  offices,  casualty  lists,  the  rumour  of  peril 
and  of  glory,  could  do  nothing  to  diminish  the  hi>^h 
urgency  of  the  polishing  of  those  brass  door  knobs 
and  those  brass  plates. 

The  shops  and  offices  seemed  to  show  that  the 
wants  of  customers  were  few  and  simple.  Grouse 
moors,  fisheries,  yachts,  valuations,  hosiery,  neck- 
ties, motor-cars,  insurance,  assurance,  antique  china, 
antique  pictures,  boots,  riding-whips,  and,  above  all, 
Eastern  cigarettes!  The  master-passion  was  evi- 
dently Eastern  cigarettes.  The  few  provision  shops 
were  marmoreal  and  majestic,  catering  as  they  did 
chiefly  for  the  multifarious  palatial  male  clubs  which 
dominated  the  parish  and  protected  and  justified  the 
innumerable  "bachelor"  suites  that  hung  forth  signs 
in  every  street.  The  parish,  in  effect,  was  first  an 
immense  monastery,  where  the  monks,  determined  to 
do  themselves  extremely  well  in  dignified  peace,  had 
made  a  prodigious  and  not  entirely  unsuccessful  ef- 
fort to  keep  out  the  excitable  sex.  And,  second,  it 
was  an  excusable  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  intensely 
respectable  tradesmen  and  stewards  to  force  the  non- 
bargaining  sex  to  pay  the  highest  possible  price  for 
the  privilege  of  doing  the  correct  thing. 

G.  J.  passed  through  the  cardiac  region  of  St. 


52  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

James's,  the  Square  itself,  where  knights,  baronets, 
barons,  brewers,  viscounts,  marquesses,  hereditary 
marshals  and  chief  butlers,  dukes,  bishops,  banks, 
librarians  and  Government  departments  gaze 
throughout  the  four  seasons  at  the  statue  of  a  Dutch- 
man; and  then  he  found  himself  at  his  bootmaker's. 
Now,  his  bootmaker  was  one  of  the  three  first 
bootmakers  in  the  West  End,  bearing  a  name  famous 
from  Peru  to  Hong  Kong.  An  untidy  interior,  full 
or/ old  boots  and  the  hides  of  various  animals!  A 
dirty  girl  was  writing  in  a  dirty  tome,  and  a  young 
man  was  knotting  together  two  pieces  of  string  in 
order  to  tie  up  a  parcel.  Such  was  the  "note"  of  the 
"house."  The  girl  smiled,  the  young  man  bowed. 
In  an  instant  the  manager  appeared,  and  G.  J.  was 
invested  with  the  attributes  of  God.  He  informed 
the  manager  with  pain,  and  the  manager  heard  with 
deep  pain,  that  the  left  boot  of  the  new  pair  he  then 
wore  was  not  quite  comfortable  in  the  toes.  The 
manager  simply  could  not  understand  it,  just  as  he 
simply  could  not  have  understood  a  failure  in  the 
working  of  the  law  of  gravity.  And  if  God  had  not 
told  him  he  would  not  have  believed  it.  He  knelt 
and  felt.  He  would  send  for  the  boots.  He  would 
make  the  boots  comfortable  or  he  would  make  a 
new  pair.  Expense  was  nothing.  Trouble  was  noth- 
ing. Incidentally  he  remarked  with  a  sigh  that  the 
enormous  demand  for  military  boots  was  rendering 
it  more  and  more  difficult  for  him  to  give  to  old 
patrons  that  prompt  and  plenary  attention  which  he 
would  desire  to  give.  However,  God  in  any  case 
should  not  suffer.  He  noticed  that  the  boots  were 


BOOTS  53 

not  quite  well  polished,  and  he  ventured  to  charge 
God  with  hints  for  God's  personal  attendant.  Then 
he  went  swiftly  across  to  a  speaking-tube  and 
snapped: 

"Polisher!" 

A  trap  door  opened  in  the  floor  of  the  shop  and 
a  horrible,  pallid,  weak,  cringing  man  came  up  out 
of  the  earth  of  St.  James's,  and  knelt  before  God  far 
more  submissively  than  even  the  manager  had  knelt. 
He  had  brushes  and  blacking,  and  he  blacked  and  he 
brushed  and  breathed  alternately,  undoing  continu- 
ally with  his  breath  or  his  filthy  hand  what  he  had 
done  with  his  brush.  He  never  looked  up,  never 
spoke.  When  he  had  made  the  boots  like  mirrors 
he  gathered  together  his  implements  and  vanished, 
silent  and  dutifully  bent,  through  the  trap  door  back 
into  the  earth  of  St.  James's.  And  because  the  trap- 
door had  not  shut  properly  the  manager  stamped  on 
it  and  stamped  down  the  pale  man  definitely  into  the 
darkness  underneath.  And  then  G.  J.  was  wafted 
out  of  the  shop  with  smiles  and  bows. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    CLUB 

THE  vast  "morning  room"  of  the  monumental 
Club  (pre-eminent  among  clubs  for  its  architecture) 
was  on  the  whole  tonically  chilly.  But  as  one  of 
the  high  windows  stood  open,  and  there  were  two 
fires  fluttering  beneath  the  lovely  marble  mantel- 
pieces, between  the  fires  and  the  window  every  grada- 
tion of  temperature  could  be  experienced  by  the  curi- 
ous. On  each  wall  bookshelves  rose  to  the  carved 
and  gilded  ceiling.  The  furlongs  of  shelves  were 
fitted  with  majestic  volumes  containing  all  the  Stat- 
utes, all  the  Parliamentary  Debates,  and  all  the 
Reports  of  Royal  Commissions  ever  printed  to  nar- 
cotise the  conscience  of  a  nation.  These  calf-bound 
works  were  not,  in  fact,  read;  but  the  magnificent 
pretence  of  their  usefulness  was  completed  by  car- 
peted mahogany  ladders  which  leaned  here  and  there 
against  the  shelving,  in  accord  with  the  theory  that 
some  studious  member  some  day  might  yearn  and 
aspire  to  some  upper  shelf.  On  reading-stands  and 
on  huge  mahogany  tables  were  disposed  the  count- 
less newspapers  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  Eu- 
rope and  America,  and  also  the  files  of  such  news- 
papers. The  apparatus  of  information  was  complete. 

G.  J.  entered  the  splendid  apartment  like  a  dis- 

54 


THE  CLUB  55 

covcrer.  It  was  empty.  Not  a  member;  not  a  ser- 
vant! It  waited,  content  to  be  inhabited,  equally 
content  with  its  own  solitude.  This  apartment  had 
made  an  adjunct  even  of  the  war;  the  function  of 
the  war  in  this  apartment  was  to  render  it  more  im- 
pressive ;  to  increase,  if  possible,  its  importance,  for 
nowhere  else  could  the  war  be  studied  so  minutely 
day  by  day. 

A  strange  thing!  G.  J.'s  sense  of  duty  to  him- 
self had  been  quickened  by  the  defection  of  his  valet. 
He  felt  that  he  had  been  failing  to  comprehend  in 
detail  the  cause  and  the  evolution  of  the  war,  and 
that  even  his  general  ideas  as  to  it  were  inexcusably 
vague ;  and  he  had  determined  to  go  every  morning 
to  the  club,  at  whatever  inconvenience,  for  the  espe- 
cial purpose  of  studying  and  of  getting  the  true  hang 
of  the  supreme  topic.  As  he  sat  down  he  was  aware 
of  the  solemnity  of  the  great  room,  last  fastness  of 
the  old  strict  decorum  in  the  club.  You  might  not 
smoke  in  it  until  after  10  P.M. 

Two  other  members  came  in  immediately,  one 
after  the  other.  The  first,  a  little,  very  old  and  very 
natty  man,  began  to  read  the  Times  at  a  stand.  The 
second,  old  too,  but  of  larger  and  firmer  build,  with 
a  long,  clean-shaven  upper  lip,  such  as  is  developed 
only  at  the  Bar,  on  the  Bench,  and  in  provincial 
circles  of  Nonconformity,  took  an  easy-chair  and 
another  copy  of  the  Times.  A  few  moments  elapsed, 
and  then  the  little  old  man  glanced  round,  and,  as- 
suming surprise  that  he  had  not  noticed  G.  J.  earlier, 
nodded  to  him  with  a  very  bright  and  benevolent 
smile. 


£6  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

G.  J.  said: 

"Well,  Sir  Francis,  what's  your  opinion  of  this 
Ypres  business.  Seems  pretty  complicated,  doesn't 
it?" 

Sir  Francis  answered  in  a  tone  whose  mild  and 
bland  benevolence  matched  his  smile: 

"I  dare  say  the  complications  escape  me.  I  see 
the  affair  quite  simply.  We  are  holding  on,  but  we 
cannot  continue  to  hold  on.  The  Germans  have 
more  men,  far  more  guns,  and  infinitely  more  ammu- 
nition. They  certainly  have  not  less  genius  for  war. 
What  can  be  the  result?  I  am  told  by  respectable 
people  that  the  Germans  lost  the  war  at  the  Marne. 
I  don't  appreciate  it.  I  am  told  that  the  Germans 
don't  realise  the  Marne.  I  think  they  realise  the 
Marne  at  least  as  well  as  we  realise  Tannenberg." 

The  slightly  trembling,  slightly  mincing  voice  of 
Sir  Francis  denoted  such  detachment,  such  polite- 
ness, such  kindliness,  that  the  opinion  it  emitted 
seemed  to  impose  itself  on  G.  J.  with  extraordinary 
authority.  There  was  a  brief  pause,  and  Sir  Francis 
ejaculated: 

"What's  your  view,  Bob?" 

The  other  old  man  now  consisted  of  a  newspaper, 
two  seamy  hands  and  a  pair  of  grey  legs.  His 
grim  voice  came  from  behind  the  newspaper,  which 
did  not  move : 

"We've  no  adequate  means  of  judging." 

"True,"  said  Sir  Francis.  "Now,  another  thing 
I'm  told  is  that  the  War  Office  was  perfectly  ready 
for  the  war  on  the  scale  agreed  upon  for  ourselves 
with  France  and  Russia.  I  don't  appreciate  that 


THE  CLUB  57 

either.  No  War  Office  can  be  said  to  be  perfectly 
ready  for  any  war  until  it  has  organised  its  relations 
with  the  public  which  it  serves.  My  belief  is  that  the 
War  Office  had  never  thought  for  one  moment  about 
the  military  importance  of  public  opinion  and  the 
Press.  At  any  rate,  it  has  most  carefully  left  nothing 
undone  to  alienate  both  the  public  and.  the  Press. 
My  son-in-law  has  the  misfortune  to  own  seven  news- 
papers, and  the  tales  he  tells  about  the  antics  of  the 

Press  Bureau "  Sir  Francis  smiled  the  rest  of 

the  sentence.  "Let  me  see,  they  offered  the  Press 
Bureau  to  you,  didn't  they,  Bob?" 

The  Times  fell,  disclosing  Bob,  whose  long  upper 
lip  grew  longer. 

"They  did,"  he  said.  "I  made  a  few  inquiries, 
and  found  it  was  nothing  but  a  shuttlecock  of  the 
departments.  I  should  have  had  no  real  power,  but 
unlimited  quantities  of  responsibility.  So  I  respect- 
fully refused." 

Sir  Francis  remarked : 

"Your  hearing's  much  better,  Bob." 

"It  is,"  answered  Bob.  "The  fact  is,  I  got  hold 
of  a  marvellous  feller  at  Birmingham."  He 
laughed  sardonically.  "I  hope  to  go  down  to 
history  as  the  first  judge  that  ever  voluntarily  re- 
tired because  of  deafness.  And  now,  thanks  to  this 
feller  at  Birmingham,  I  can  hear  better  than  seventy- 
five  per  cent,  of  the  Bench.  The  Lord  Chancellor 
gave  me  a  hint  I  might  care  to  return,  and  so  save 
a  pension  to  the  nation.  I  told  him  I'd  begin  to 
think  about  that  when  he'd  persuaded  the  Board  of 
Works  to  ventilate  my  old  Court."  He  laughed 


58  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

again.  "And  now  I  see  the  Press  Bureau  is  enun- 
ciating the  principle  that  it  won't  permit  criticism 
that  might  in  any  way  weaken  the  confidence  of  the 
people  in  the  administration  of  affairs." 

Bob  opened  his  mouth  wide  and  kept  it  open. 

Sir  Francis,  with  no  diminution  of  the  mild  and 
bland  benevolence  of  his  detachment,  said: 

"The  voice  is  the  Press  Bureau's  voice,  but  the 
hands  are  the  hands  of  the  War  Office.  Can  we 
reasonably  hope  to  win,  or  not  to  lose,  with  such  a 
mentality  at  the  head?  I  cannot  admit  that  the  War 
Office  has  changed  in  the  slightest  degree  in  a  hun- 
dred years.  From  time  to  time  a  brainy  civilian 
walks  in,  like  Cardwell  or  Haldane,  and  saves  it 
from  becoming  patently  ridiculous.  But  it  never  real- 
ly alters.  When  I  was  War  Secretary  in  a  transient 
government  it  was  precisely  the  same  as  it  had  been 
in  the  reign  of  the  Duke  of  Cambridge,  and  to-day 
it  is  still  precisely  the  same.  I  am  told  that  Haldane 
succeeded  in  teaching  our  generals  the  value  of 
Staff  work  as  distinguished  from  dashing  cavalry 
charges.  I  don't  appreciate  that.  The  Staffs  are 
still  wide  open  to  men  with  social  influence  and  still 
closed  to  men  without  social  influence.  My 
grandson  is  full  of  great  modern  notions  about 
tactics.  He  may  have  talent  for  all  I  know.  He 
got  a  Staff  appointment — because  he  came  to  me  and 
I  spoke  ten  words  to  an  old  friend  of  mine  with  oak 
leaves  in  the  club  next  door  but  one.  No  questions 
asked.  I  mean  no  serious  questions.  It  was  done 
to  oblige  me,  the  very  existence  of  the  Empire  being 
at  stake — according  to  all  accounts.  So  that  I  ven- 


THE  CLUB  59 

ture  to  doubt  whether  we're  going  to  hold  Ypres,  or 
anything  else." 

Bob,  unimpressed  by  the  speech,  burst  out: 

"You've  got  the  perspective  wrong.  Obviously 
the  centre  of  gravity  is  no  longer  in  the  West — it's 
in  the  East.  In  the  West  roughly,  equilibrium  has 
been  established.  Hence  Poland  is  the  decisive 
field,  and  the  measure  o:  the  Russian  success  or 
failure  is  the  measure  of  the  Allied  success  or 
failure." 

Sir  Francis  inquired  with  gentle  joy: 

"Then  we're  all  right?  The  Russians  have  ad- 
mittedly recovered  from  Tannenberg.  If  there  is 
any  truth  in  a  map  they  are  doing  excellently. 
They're  more  brilliant  than  Potsdam,  and  they  can 
put  two  men  into  the  field  to  the  Germans'  one — 
two  and  a  half  in  fact." 

Bob  fiercely  rumbled: 

"I  don't  think  we're  all  right.  This  habit  of 
thinking  in  men  is  dangerous.  What  are  men  with- 
out munitions?  And  without  a  clean  administra- 
tion? Nothing  but  a  rabble.  It  is  notorious  that 
the  Russians  are  running  short  of  munitions  and 
that  the  administration  from  top  to  bottom  consists 
of  outrageous  rascals.  Moreover  I  see  to-day  a 
report  that  the  Germans  have  won  a  big  victory  at 
Kutno.  I've  been  expecting  that.  That's  the 
beginning — mark  me !" 

"Yes,"  Sir  Francis  cheerfully  agreed.  "Yes. 
We're  spending  one  million  a  day,  and  now  income 
tax  is  doubled!  The  country  cannot  stand  it  in- 
definitely, and  since  our  only  hope  lies  in  our  being 


60  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

able  to  stand  it  indefinitely,  there  is  no  hope — at  any 
rate  for  unbiassed  minds.  Facts  are  facts,  I  fear." 

Bob  cried  impatiently: 

"Unbiassed  be  damned!  I  don't  want  to  be  un- 
biassed. I  won't  be.  I  had  enough  of  being  un- 
biassed when  I  was  on  the  Bench,  and  I  don't  care 
what  any  of  you  unbiassed  people  say — I  believe  we 
shall  win." 

G.  J.  suddenly  saw  a  boy  in  the  old  man,  and 
suddenly  he  too  became  boyish,  remembering  what 
he  had  said  to  Christine  about  the  war  not  having 
begun  yet;  and  with  fervour  he  concurred: 

"So  do  I." 

He  rose,  moved — relieved  after  a  tension  which 
he  had  not  noticed  until  it  was  broken.  It  was 
time  for  him  to  go.  The  two  old  men  were  re- 
called to  the  fact  of  his  presence.  Bob  raised  the 
newspaper  again. 

Sir  Francis  asked: 

"Are  you  going  to  the — er — affair  in  the  city?" 

"Yes,"  said  G.  J.  with  careful  unconcern. 

"I  had  thought  of  going.  My  granddaughter 
worried  me  till  I  consented  to  take  her.  I  got  two 
tickets;  but  no  sooner  had  I  arrayed  myself  this 
morning  than  she  rang  me  up  to  say  that  her  baby 
was  teething  and  she  couldn't  leave  it.  In  view  of 
this  important  creature's  indisposition  I  sent  the 
tickets  back  to  the  Dean  and  changed  my  clothes. 
Great-grandfathers  have  to  be  philosophers.  I  say, 
Hoape,  they  tell  me  you  play  uncommonly  good 
auction  bridge." 


THE  CLUB  61 

"I  play,"  said  G.  J.  modestly.  "But  no  better 
than  I  ought." 

"You  might  care  to  make  a  fourth  this  afternoon, 
in  the  card-room." 

"I  should  have  been  delighted  to,  but  I've  got 
one  of  these  war-committees  at  six  o'clock."  Again 
he  spoke  with  careful  unconcern,  masking  a  consid- 
erable self-satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    MISSION 

THE  great  dim  place  was  full,  but  crowding  had 
not  been  permitted.  With  a  few  exceptions  in  the 
outlying  parts,  everybody  had  a  seat.  G.  J.  was 
favourably  placed  for  seeing  the  whole  length  of  the 
interior.  Accustomed  to  the  restaurants  of  fashion- 
able hotels,  auction-rooms,  theatrical  first-nights,  the 
haunts  of  sport,  clubs,  and  courts  of  justice,  he  soon 
perceived,  from  the  numerous  samples  which  he  him- 
self was  able  to  identify,  that  all  the  London  worlds 
were  fully  represented  in  the  multiude — the  official 
world,  the  political,  the  clerical,  the  legal,  the  muni- 
cipal, the  military,  the  artistic,  the  literary,  the  dilet- 
tante, the  financial,  the  sporting;  and  the  world 
whose  sole  object  in  life  apparently  is  to  be  observed 
and  recorded  at  all  gatherings  to  which  admittance 
is  gained  by  privilege  and  influence  alone. 

There  were  in  particular  women  the  names  and 
countenances  and  family  history  of  whom  were  fa- 
miliar to  hundreds  of  thousands  of  illustrated-news- 
paper  readers,  even  in  the  most  distant  counties, 
and  who  never  missed  what  was  called  a  "function," 
whether  "brilliant,"  "exclusive,"  or  merely  scan- 
dalous. At  murder  trials,  at  the  sales  of  art  collec- 

62 


THE  MISSION  63 

tions,  at  the  birth  of  musical  comedies,  at  boxing 
matches,  at  historic  debates,  at  receptions  in  honour 
of  the  renowned,  at  luscious  divorce  cases,  they  were 
surely  present,  and  the  entire  Press  surely  noted  that 
they  were  present.  And  if  executions  had  been  pub- 
lic, they  would  in  the  same  religious  spHt  have  at- 
tended executions,  rousing  their  maids  at  milkmen's 
hours  in  order  that  they  might  assume  the  right  cun- 
ning frock  to  fit  the  occasion.  And  they  were  here. 
And  no  one  could  divine  why  or  how,  or  to  what 
eternal  end. 

G.  J.  hated  them,  and  he  hated  the  solemn  self- 
satisfaction  that  brooded  over  the  haughty  faces 
of  the  throng.  He  hated  himself  for  having  ac- 
cepted a  ticket  from  the  friend  in  the  War  Office 
who  was  now  sitting  next  to  him.  And  yet  he  was 
pleased,  too.  A  disturbed  conscience  could  not  de- 
feat the  instinct  which  bound  him  to  the  whole 
fashionable  and  powerful  assemblage.  For  ever 
afterwards,  to  his  dying  hour,  he  could  say — casual- 
ly, modestly,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  he  could  still 
say — that  he  had  been  there.  The  Lord  Mayor 
and  Sheriffs,  tradesmen  glittering  like  Oriental 
potentates,  passed  slowly  across  his  field  of  vision. 
He  thought  with  contempt  of  the  City,  living  ghoul- 
ish on  the  buried  past,  and  obstinately  and  humanly 
refusing  to  make  a  pile  of  its  putrefying  interests, 
set  fire  to  it,  and  perish  thereon. 

The  music  began.  It  was  the  Dead  March  in 
Saul.  The  long-rolling  drums  suddenly  rent  the 
soul,  and  destroyed  every  base  and  petty  thought 
that  was  there.  Clergy,  headed  by  a  bishop,  were 


64  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

walking  down  the  cathedral.  At  the  huge  doors, 
nearly  lost  in  the  heavy  twilight  of  November  noon, 
they  stopped,  turned  and  came  back.  The  coffin 
swayed  into  view,  covered  with  the  sacred  symbolic 
bunting,  and  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  eight 
sergeants  of  the  old  regiments  of  the  dead  man. 
Then  followed  the  pallbearers — five  field  marshals, 
five  full  generals,  and  two  admirals ;  aged  men,  and 
some  of  them  had  reached  the  highest  dignity  with- 
out giving  a  single  gesture  that  had  impressed  itself 
on  the  national  mind;  nonentities,  apotheosised  by 
senority;  and  some  showed  traces  of  the  bitter  rain 
that  was  falling  in  the  fog  outside.  Then  the  Pri- 
mate. Then  the  King,  who  had  supervened  from 
nowhere,  the  magic  production  of  chamberlains  and 
comptrollers.  The  procession,  headed  by  the  clergy, 
moved  slowly,  amid  the  vistas  ending  in  the  dull 
burning  of  stained  glass,  through  the  congregation  in 
mourning  and  in  khaki,  through  the  lines  of  yellow- 
glowing  candelabra,  towards  the  crowd  of  scarlet 
under  the  dome ;  the  summit  of  the  dome  was  hidden 
in  soft  mist.  The  music  became  insupportable  in 
its  sublimity. 

G.  J.  was  afraid,  and  he  did  not  immediately 
know  why  he  was  afraid.  The  procession  came 
nearer.  It  was  upon  him.  .  .  .  He  knew  why  he 
was  afraid,  and  he  averted  sharply  his  gaze  from 
the  coffin.  He  was  afraid  for  his  composure.  If  he 
had  continued  to  watch  the  coffin  he  would  have  burst 
into  loud  sobs.  Only  by  an  extraordinary  effort 
did  he  master  himself.  Many  other  people  lowered 
their  faces  in  self-defence.  The  searchers  after  new 


THE  MISSION  65 

and  violent  sensations  were  having  the  time  of  their 
lives. 

The  Dead  March  with  its  intolerable  genius  had 
ceased.  The  coffin,  guarded  by  flickering  candles, 
lay  on  the  lofty  catafalque;  the  eight  sergeants  were 
pretending  that  their  strength  had  not  been  in  the 
least  degree  taxed.  Princes,  the  illustrious,  the 
champions  of  Allied  might,  dark  Indians,  adventur- 
ers, even  Germans,  surrounded  the  catafalque  in  the 
gloom.  G.  J.  sympathised  with  the  man  in  the 
coffin,  the  simple  little  man  whose  non-political 
mission  had  in  spite  of  him  grown  political.  He  re- 
gretted horribly  that  once  he,  G.  J.,  who  protested 
that  he  belonged  to  no  party,  had  said  of  the  dead 
man:  "Roberts!  Well-meaning  of  course,  but 
senile!"  .  .  .  Yet  a  trifle!  What  did  it  matter? 
And  how  he  loathed  to  think  that  the  name  of  the 
dead  man  was  now  befouled  by  the  calculating  and 
impure  praise  of  schemers.  Another  trifle ! 

As  the  service  proceeded  G.  J.  was  overwhelmed 
and  lost  in  the  grandeur  and  terror  of  existence. 
There  he  sat,  grizzled,  dignified,  with  the  great 
world,  looking  as  though  he  belonged  to  the  great 
world;  and  he  felt  like  a  boy,  like  a  child,  like  a 
helpless  infant  before  the  enormities  of  destiny.  He 
wanted  help,  because  of  his  futility.  He  could  do 
nothing,  or  so  little.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  train- 
ing himself  for  twenty  years  in  order  to  be  futile  at 
a  crisis  requiring  crude  action.  And  he  could  not 
undo  twenty  years.  The  war  loomed  about  him,  co- 
extensive with  existence  itself.  He  thought  of  the 
sergeant  who,  as  recounted  that  morning  in  the 


66  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

papers,  had  led  a  victorious  storming  party,  been 
decorated — and  died  of  wounds.  And  similar  deeds 
were  being  done  at  that  moment.  And  the  simple 
little  man  in  the  coffin  was  being  tilted  downwards 
from  the  catafalque  into  the  grave  close  by.  G.  J. 
wanted  surcease,  were  it  but  for  an  hour.  He  longed 
acutely,  unbearably,  to  be  for  an  hour  with  Christine 
in  her  warm,  stuffy,  exciting,  languorous,  enervating 
room  hermetically  sealed  against  the  war.  Then 
he  remembered  the  tones  of  her  voice  as  she  had 
told  her  Belgian  adventures.  .  .  .  Was  it  love? 
Was  it  tenderness?  Was  it  sensuality?  The  dif- 
ference was  indiscernible;  it  had  no  importance. 
Against  the  stark  background  of  infinite  existence  all 
human  beings  were  alike  and  all  their  passions  were 
alike. 

The  gaunt,  ruthless  autocrat  of  the  War  Office 
and  the  frail  crowned  descendant  of  kings  fronted 
each  other  across  the  open  grave,  and  the  coffin 
sank  between  them  and  was  gone.  From  the  choir 
there  came  the  chanted  and  soothing  words : 

"Steals  on  the  ear  the  distant  triumph-song." 

G.  J.  just  caught  them  clear  among  much  that  was 
incomprehensible.  An  intense  patriotism  filled  him. 
He  could  do  nothing,  but  he  could  keep  his  head, 
keep  his  balance,  practise  magnanimity,  uphold  the 
truth  amid  prejudice  and  superstition,  and  be  kind. 
Such  at  that  moment  seemed  to  be  his  mission. 
.  .  .  He  looked  round,  and  pitied,  instead  of 
hating,  the  searchers  after  sensations. 

A  being  called  the  Garter  King  of  Arms  stepped 


THE  MISSION  67 

forward  and  in  a  loud  voice  recited  the  earthly  titles 
and  honours  of  the  simple,  little  dead  man;  and, 
although  few  qualities  are  commoner  than  physical 
courage,  the  whole  catalogue  seemed  ridiculous  and 
tawdry  until  the  being  came  to  the  two  words,  "Vic- 
toria Cross."  The  being,  having  lived  his  glorious 
moments,  withdrew.  The  Funeral  March  of 
Chopin  tramped  with  its  excruciating  dragging  tread 
across  the  ruins  of  the  soul.  And  finally  the  cathe- 
dral was  startled  by  the  sudden  trumpets  of  "The 
Last  Post,"  and  the  ceremony  ended. 

"Come  and  have  lunch  with  me,"  said  the  young 
red-hatted  officer  next  to  G.  J.  "I  haven't  got  to 
be  back  till  two-thirty,  and  I  want  to  talk  music  for 
a  change.  Do  you  know  I'm  putting  in  ninety 
hours  a  week  at  the  W.  O.?" 

"Can't,"  G.  J.  replied,  with  an  affectation  of 
jauntiness.  "I'm  engaged  for  lunch.  Sorry." 

"Who  you  lunching  with?" 

"Mrs.  Smith." 

The  Staff  officer  exclaimed  aghast: 

"Concepcion?" 

"Yes.     Why,  dear  heart?" 

"My  dear  chap.  You  don't  know.  Carlos 
Smith's  been  killed.  She  doesn't  know  yet.  I  heard 
only  by  chance.  News  came  through  just  as  I  left. 
Nobody  knows  except  a  chap  or  two  in  Casualties. 
They  won't  be  sending  out  to-day's  wires  until  two 
or  three  o'clock." 

G.  J.,  terrified  and  at  a  loss,  murmured: 

"What  am  I  to  do,  then?" 


68  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"You  know  her  extremely  well,  don't  you?  You 
ought  to  go  and  prepare  her." 

"But  how  can  I  prepare  her?" 

"I  don't  know.  How  do  people  prepare  people? 
.  .  .  Poor  thing!" 

G.  J.  fought  against  the  incredible  fact  of  death. 

"But  he  went  out  only  six  days  ago  I  They 
haven't  been  married  three  weeks." 

The  central  hardness  of  the  other  disclosed  itself 
as  he  said: 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  What  does  it 
matter  if  he  went  out  six  days  ago  or  six  weeks  ago? 
He's  killed." 

"Well -" 

"Of  course  you  must  go.  Indicate  a  rumour. 
Tell  her  it's  probably  false,  but  you  thought  you 
owed  it  to  her  to  warn  her.  Only  for  God's  sake 
don't  mention  me.  We're  not  supposed  to  say  any- 
thing, you  know." 

G.  J.  seemed  to  see  his  mission,  and  it  challenged 
him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    TELEGRAM 

As  soon  as  G.  J.  had  been  let  into  the  abode  by 
Concepcion's  venerable  parlourmaid,  the  voice  of 
Concepcion  came  down  to  him  from  above: 

"G.  J.,  who  is  your  oldest  and  dearest  friend?" 

He  replied,  marvellously  schooling  his  voice  to  a 
similar  tone  of  cheerful  abruptness: 

"Difficult  to  say,  offhand." 

"Not  at  all.     It's  your  beard." 

That  was  her  greeting  to  him.  He  knew  she  was 
recalling  an  old  declined  suggestion  of  hers  that  he 
should  part  with  his  beard.  The  parlourmaid  prac- 
tised an  admirable  deafness,  faithfully  to  confirm 
Concepcion,  who  always  presumed  deafness  in  all 
servants.  G.  J.  looked  up  the  narrow  well  of  the 
staircase.  He  could  vaguely  see  Concepcion  on 
high,  leaning  over  the  banisters;  he  thought  she  was 
rather  fluffily  dressed,  for  her. 

Concepcion  inhabited  an  upper  part  in  a  street 
largely  devoted  to  the  sale  of  grand  pianos.  Her 
front  door  was  immediately  at  the  top  of  a  long, 
straight,  narrow  stairway;  so  that  whoever  opened 
the  door  stood  one  step  higher  than  the  person  de- 
siring entrance.  Within  the  abode,  which  was  fairly 
spacious,  more  and  more  stairs  went  up  and  up. 

69 


70  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"My  motto  is,"  she  would  say,  "  'One  room,  one 
staircase.' '  The  life  of  the  abode  was  on  the  busy 
stairs.  She  called  it  also  her  Alpine  Club.  She 
had  made  upper-parts  in  that  street  popular  among 
the  select,  and  had  therefore  caused  rents  to  rise. 
In  the  drawing-room  she  had  hung  a  horrible  en- 
larged photographic  portrait  of  herself,  with  a  choc- 
olate-coloured mount,  the  whole  framed  in  German 
gilt,  and  under  it  she  had  inscribed,  "Presented  to 
Miss  Concepcion  Iquist  by  the  grateful  landlords 
of  the  neighbourhood  as  a  slight  token  of  esteem 
and  regard." 

She  was  the  only  daughter  of  Iquist's  brother, 
who  had  had  a  business  and  a  palace  at  Lima.  At  the 
age  of  eighteen,  her  last  surviving  parent  being  dead, 
she  had  come  to  London  and  started  to  keep  house 
for  the  bachelor  Iquist,  who  at  that  very  moment, 
owing  to  a  fortunate  change  in  the  Ministry,  had 
humorously  entered  the  Cabinet.  These  two  had 
immediately  become  "the  most  talked-of  pair  in 
London,"  London  in  this  phrase  signifying  the  few 
thousand  people  who  do  talk  about  the  doings  of 
other  people  unknown  to  them  and  being  neither 
kings,  princes,  statesmen,  artistes,  artists,  jockeys, 
nor  poisoners.  The  Iquists  had  led  the  semi-intelli- 
gent, conscious-of-its-audience  set  which  had  ousted 
the  old,  quite  unintelligent  stately-homes-of-England 
set  from  the  first  place  in  the  curiosity  of  the  ever- 
lasting public.  Concepcion  had  wit.  It  was  stated 
that  she  furnished  her  uncle  with  the  finest  of  his 
mots.  When  Iquist  died,  of  course  poor  Concepcion 
had  retired  to  the  upper  part,  whence,  though  her 


THE  TELEGRAM  71 

position  was  naturally  weakened,  she  still  took  a 
hand  in  leading  the  set. 

G.  J.  had  grown  friendly  and  appreciative  of  her, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  she -had  singled  him  out 
and  always  tried  to  please  him,  even  when  taking 
liberties  with  him.  He  liked  her  because  she  was 
different  from  her  set.  She  had  a  masculine  mind, 
whereas  many  even  of  the  males  of  her  set  had  a 
feminine  mind.  She  was  exceedingly  well  educated; 
she  had  ideas  on  everything;  and  she  never  failed  in 
catching  an  allusion.  She  would  criticise  her  set 
very  honestly;  her  attitude  to  it  and  to  herself 
seemed  to  be  that  of  an  impartial  and  yet  indulgent 
philosopher;  withal  she  could  be  intensely  loyal  to 
fools  and  worse  who  were  friends.  As  for  the 
public,  she  was  apparently  convinced  of  the  sincerity 
of  her  scorn  for  it,  while  admitting  that  she  enjoyed 
publicity,  which  had  become  indispensable  to  her  as 
a  drug  may  become  indispensable.  Moreover,  there 
was  her  wit  and  her  candid,  queer  respect  for  G.  J. 

Yes,  he  had  greatly  admired  her  for  her  qualities. 
He  did  not,  however,  greatly  admire  her  physique. 
She  was  tall,  with  a  head  scarcely  large  enough  for 
her  body.  She  had  a  nice  snub  nose  which  in  an- 
other woman  might  have  been  irresistible.  She 
possessed  very  little  physical  charm,  and  showed 
very  little  taste  in  her  neat,  prim  frocks.  Not 
merely  had  she  a  masculine  mind,  but  she  was  some- 
what hard,  a  self-confessed  egoist.  She  swore  like 
the  set,  using  about  one  "damn"  or  one  "bloody"  to 
every  four  cigarettes,  of  which  she  smoked,  perhaps, 
fifty  a  day — including  some  in  taxis.  She  discussed 


72  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

the  sexual  vagaries  of  her  friends  and  her  enemies 
with  a  freedom  and  an  apparent  learning  which  were 
remarkable  in  a  virgin. 

In  the  end  she  had  married  Carlos  Smith,  and, 
characteristically,  had  received  him  into  her  own 
home  instead  of  going  to  his;  as  a  fact,  he  had  none, 
having  been  a  parent's  close-kept  darling.  London 
had  only  just  recovered  from  the  excitations  of  the 
wedding.  G.  J.  had  regarded  the  marriage  with 
benevolence,  perhaps  with  relief. 

"Anybody  else  coming  to  lunch?"  he  discreetly 
inquired  of  his  familiar,  the  parlourmaid. 

She  breathed  a  negative. 

He  had  guessed  it.  Concepcion  had  meant  to  be 
alone  with  him.  Having  married  for  love,  and  her 
husband  being  rapt  away  by  the  war,  she  intended 
to  resume  her  old,  honest,  quasi-sentimental  rela- 
tions with  G.  J.  A  reliable  and  experienced  bach- 
elor is  always  useful  to  a  young  grass  widow,  and, 
moreover,  the  attendant  hopeless  adorer  nourishes 
her  hungry  egotism  as  nobody  else  can.  G.  J. 
thought  these  thoughts,  clearly  and  callously,  in  the 
same  moment  as,  mounting  the  next  flight  of  stairs, 
he  absolutely  trembled  with  sympathetic  anguish  for 
Concepcion.  His  errand  was  an  impossible  one; 
he  feared,  or  rather  he  hoped,  that  the  very  look 
on  his  face  might  betray  the  dreadful  news  to  that 
undeceivable  intuition  which  women  were  supposed 
to  possess.  He  hesitated  on  the  stairs;  he  re- 
coiled from  the  top  step — (she  had  coquettishly 
withdrawn  herself  into  the  room) — he  hadn't  the 
slightest  idea  how  to  begin.  Yes,  the  errand  was 


THE  TELEGRAM  73 

an  impossible  one,  and  yet  such  errands  had  to  be 
performed  by  somebody,  were  daily  being  per- 
formed by  somebodies.  Then  he  had  the  idea  of 
telephoning  privily  to  fetch  her  cousin  Sara.  He 
would  open  by  remarking  casually  to  Concepcion: 
"I  say,  can  I  use  your  telephone  a  minute?" 
He  found  a  strange  Concepcion  in  the  drawing- 
room.  This  was  his  first  sight  of  Mrs.  Carlos 
Smith  since  the  wedding.  She  wore  a  dress  such  as 
he  had  never  seen  on  her:  a  tea  gown— and  for 
lunch!  It  could  be  called  neither  neat  nor  prim, 
but  it  was  voluptuous.  Her  complexion  had 
bloomed;  the  curves  of  her  face  were  softer,  her 
gestures  more  abandoned,  her  gaze  full  of  a  bold 
and  yet  shamed  self-consciousness,  her  dark  hair 
looser.  He  stood  close  to  her;  he  stood  within  the 
aura  of  her  recently  aroused  temperament,  and  felt 
it.  He  thought,  could  not  help  thinking:  "Perhaps 
she  bears  within  her  the  legacy  of  new  life."  He 
could  not  help  thinking  of  her  name.  He  took  her 
hot  hand.  She  said  nothing,  but  just  looked  at  him. 
He  then  said  jauntily: 

"I  say,  can  I  use  your  telephone  a  minute?" 
Fortunately,  the  telephone  was  in  the  bedroom. 
He  went  farther  upstairs  and  shut  himself  in  the 
bedroom,  and  saw  naught  but  the  telephone  sur- 
rounded by  the  mysterious  influences  of  inanimate 
things  in  the  gay,  crowded  room. 

"Is  that  you,  Mrs.  Trevise?  It's  G.  J.  speaking. 
G.  J.  .  .  .  Hoape.  Yes.  Listen.  I'm  at  Con- 
cepcion's  for  lunch,  and  I  want  you  to  come  over 
as  quickly  as  you  can.  I've  got  very  bad  news  in- 


74  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

deed — the  worst  possible.  Carlos  has  been  killed 
at  the  Front.  What?  Yes,  awful,  isn't  it?  She 
doesn't  know.  I  have  the  job  of  telling  her. 

Now  that  the  words  had  been  spoken  in  Con- 
cepcion's  abode  the  reality  of  Carlos  Smith's  death 
seemed  more  horribly  convincing  than  before.  And 
G.  J.,  speaker  of  the  words,  felt  almost  as  guilty  as 
though  he  himself  were  responsible  for  the  death. 
When  he  had  rung  off  he  stood  motionless  in  the 
room  until  the  opening  of  the  door  startled  him. 
Concepcion  appeared. 

"If  you've  done  corrupting  my  innocent  telephone 
..."  she  said,  "lunch  is  cooling." 

He  felt  a  murderer. 

At  the  lunch  table  she  might  have  been  a  genuine 
South  American.  Nobody  could  be  less  like  Chris- 
tine than  she  was;  and  yet  in  those  instants  she  in- 
comprehensibly reminded  him  of  Christine.  Then 
she  started  to  talk  in  her  old  manner  of  a  profes- 
sional and  renowned  talker.  G.  J.  listened  atten- 
tively. They  ate.  It  was  astounding  that  he  could 
eat.  And  it  was  rather  surprising  that  she  did  not 
cry  out:  "G.  J.  What  the  devil's  the  matter  with 
you  to-day?"  But  she  went  on  talking  evenly,  and 
she  made  him  recount  his  doings.  He  related  the 
conversation  at  the  club,  and  especially  what  Bob, 
the  retired  judge,  had  said  about  equilibrium  on  the 
Western  Front.  She  did  not  want  to  hear  anything 
as  to  the  funeral. 

"We'll  have  champagne,"  she  said  suddenly  to 
the  parlourmaid,  who  was  about  to  offer  some  red 
wine.  And  while  the  parlourmaid  was  out  of  the 


THE  TELEGRAM  75 

room  she  said  to  G.  J.,  "There  isn't  a  country  in 
Europe  where  champagne  is  not  a  symbol,  and  we 
must  conform." 

"A  symbol  of  what?" 

"Ah!     The  unusual." 

"And  what  is  there  unusual  to-day?"  he  almost 
asked,  but  did  not  ask.  It  would,  of  course,  have 
been  utterly  monstrous  to  put  such  a  question, 
knowing  what  he  knew.  He  thought:  "I'm  not  a 
bit  nearer  telling  her  than  I  was  when  I  came." 

After  the  parlourmaid  had  poured  out  the  cham- 
pagne Concepcion  picked  up  her  glass  and  absently 
glanced  through  it  and  said: 

"You  know,  G.  J.,  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  least 
surprised  to  hear  that  Carly  was  killed  out  there. 
I  shouldn't,  really." 

In  amazement  G.  J.  ceased  to  eat. 

"You  needn't  look  at  me  like  that,"  she  said. 
"I'm  quite  serious.  One  may  as  well  face  the  risks. 
He  does.  Of  course  they're  all  heroes.  There  are 
millions  of  heroes.  But  I  do  honestly  believe  that 
my  Carly  would  be  braver  than  anyone.  By  the 
way,  did  I  ever  tell  you  he  was  considered  the  best 
shot  in  Cheshire?" 

"No.  But  I  knew,"  answered  G.  J.  feebly.  He 
would  have  expected  her  to  be  a  little  condescend- 
ing towards  Carlos,  to  whom  in  brains  she  was  in- 
finitely superior.  But  no!  Carlos  had  mastered 
her,  and  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  mastering  her. 
He  had  taught  her  in  three  weeks  more  than  she 
had  learnt  on  two  continents  in  thirty  years.  She 
talked  of  him  precisely  as  any  wee  wifie  might  have 


76  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

talked  of  the  soldier-spouse.  And  she  called  him 
"Carly"  1 

Neither  of  them  had  touched  the  champagne. 
G.  J.  decided  that  he  would  postpone  any  attempt 
to  tell  her  until  her  cousin  arrived;  her  cousin  might 
arrive  at  any  moment  now. 

While  the  parlourmaid  presented  potatoes  Con- 
cepcion  deliberately  ignored  her  and  said  dryly  to 
G.J.: 

"I  can't  eat  any  more.  I  think  I  ought  to  run 
along  to  Debenham  and  Freebody's  at  once.  You 
might  come  too,  and  be  sure  to  bring  your  good  taste 
with  you." 

He  was  alarmed  by  her  tone. 

"Debenham  and  Freebody's!     What  for?" 

"To  order  mourning,  of  course.  To  have  it 
ready,  you  know.  A  precaution,  you  know."  She 
laughed. 

He  saw  that  she  was  becoming  hysterical:  the 
special  liability  of  the  war-bride  for  whom  the  cur- 
tain has  been  lifted  and  falls  exasperatingly,  en- 
ragingly,  too  soon. 

"You  think  I'm  a  bit  hysterical?"  she  questioned, 
half  menacingly,  and  stood  up. 

"I  think  you'd  better  sit  down,  to  begin  with,"  he 
said  firmly. 

The  parlourmaid,  blushing  slightly,  left  the  room. 

"Oh,  all  right  1"  Concepcion  agreed  carelessly, 
and  sat  down.  "But  you  may  as  well  read  that." 

She  drew  a  telegram  from  the  low  neck  of  her 
gown  and  carefully  unfolded  it  and  placed  it  in  front 


THE  TELEGRAM  77 

of  him.  It  was  a  War  Office  telegram  announcing 
that  Carlos  had  been  killed. 

"It  came  ten  minutes  before  you,"  she  said. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  once?"  he  murmured, 
frightfully  shocked.  He  was  actually  reproaching 
her! 

She  stood  up  again.  She  lived;  her  breast  rose 
and  fell.  Her  gown  had  the  same  voluptuousness. 
Her  temperament  was  still  emanating  the  same  aura. 
She  was  the  same  new  Concepcion,  strange  and  yet 
profoundly  known  to  him.  But  ineffable  tragedy 
had  marked  her  down,  and  the  sight  of  her  parched 
the  throat. 

She  said: 

"Couldn't.  Besides,  I  had  to  see  if  I  could  stand 
it.  Because  I've  got  to  stand  it,  G.  J.  .  .  .  And, 
moreover,  in  our  set  it's  a  sacred  duty  to  be  orig- 
inal." 

She  snatched  the  telegram,  tore  it  in  two,  and 
pushed  the  pieces  back  into  her  gown. 

"  'Poor  wounded  name!'  "  she  murmured,  "  'my 
bosom  as  a  bed  shall  lodge  thee.'  ' 

The  next  moment  she  fell  to  the  floor,  at  full 
length  on  her  back.  G.  J.  sprang  to  her,  kneeling  on 
her  rich,  outspread  gown,  and  tried  to  lift  her. 

"No,  no!"  she  protested  faintly,  dreamily,  with  a 
feeble  frown  on  her  pale  forehead.  "Let  me  lie. 
Equilibrium  has  been  established  on  the  Western 
Front." 

This  was  her  greatest  mot. 


CHAPTER  XII 

RENDEZVOUS 

WHEN  the  Italian  woman,  having  recognised  him 
with  a  discreet  smile,  introduced  G.  J.  into  the  draw- 
ing-room of  the  Cork  Street  flat,  he  saw  Christine 
lying  on  the  sofa  by  the  fire.  She  too  was  in  a 
tea  gown. 

She  said: 

"Do  not  be  vexed.  I  have  my  migraine — am 
good  for  nothing.  But  I  gave  the  order  that  thou 
shouldst  be  admitted." 

She  lifted  her  arms,  and  the  long  sleeves  fell  away. 
G.  J.  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  She  joined  her 
hands  on  the  nape  of  his  neck,  and  with  this  lever- 
age raised  her  whole  body  for  an  instant,  like  a 
child,  smiling;  then  dropped  back  with  a  fatigued 
sigh,  also  like  a  child.  He  found  satisfaction  in  the 
fact  that  she  was  laid  aside.  It  was  providential. 
It  set  him  right  with  himself.  For,  to  put  the  thing 
crudely,  he  had  left  the  tragic  Concepcion  to  come  to 
Christine,  a  woman  picked  up  in  a  Promenade. 

True,  Sara  Trevise  had  agreed  with  him  that  he 
could  accomplish  no  good  by  staying  at  Concepcion's; 
Concepcion  had  withdrawn  from  the  vision  of  men. 
True,  it  could  make  no  difference  to  Concepcion 
whether  he  retired  to  his  flat  for  the  rest  of  the  day 

78 


RENDEZVOUS  79 

and  saw  no  one,  or  whether,  having  changed  his 
ceremonious  clothes  there,  he  went  out  again  on  his 
own  affairs.  True,  he  had  promised  Christine  to 
see  her  that  afternoon,  and  a  promise  was  a 
promise,  and  Christine  was  a  woman  who  had 
behaved  well  to  him,  and  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  him  to  send  her  an  excuse,  since 
he  did  not  know  her  surname.  These  apparently 
excellent  arguments  were  specious  and  worthless. 
He  would,  anyhow,  have  gone  to  Christine.  The 
call  was  imperious  within  him,  and  took  no  heed  of 
grief,  nor  propriety,  nor  the  secret  decencies  of 
sympathy.  The  primitive  man  in  him  would  have 
gone  to  Christine. 

He  sat  down  with  a  profound  and  exquisite  relief. 
The  entrance  to  the  house  was  nearly  opposite  the 
entrance  to  a  prim  but  fashionable  and  expensive 
hotel.  To  ring  (and  ring  the  right  bell)  and  wait 
at  Christine's  door  almost  under  the  eyes  of  the  hotel 
was  an  ordeal.  .  .  .  The  fat  and  untidy  Italian 
had  opened  the  door,  and  shut  it  again — quick !  He 
was  in  another  world,  saved,  safe!  On  the  dark 
staircase  the  image  of  Concepcion  with  her  temper- 
ament roused  and  condemned  to  everlasting  hunger, 
the  unconquerable  Concepcion  blasted  in  an  instant 
of  destiny — this  image  faded.  She  would  re-marry. 
.  .  .  She  ought  to  re-marry.  .  .  .  And  now  he 
was  in  Christine's  warm  room,  and  Christine,  tem- 
porary invalid,  reclined  before  his  eyes.  The  lights 
were  turned  on,  the  blinds  drawn,  the  stove  replen- 
ished, the  fire  replenished.  He  was  enclosed  with 
Christine  in  a  little  world  with  no  law  and  no  con- 


80  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

ventions  except  its  own,  and  no  shames  nor  pretences. 
He  was,  as  it  were,  in  the  East.  And  the  immanence 
of  a  third  person,  the  Italian,  accepting  naturally 
and  completely  the  code  of  the  little  world,  only 
added  to  the  charm.  The  Italian  was  like  a  slave, 
from  whom  it  is  necessary  to  hide  nothing  and  never 
to  blush. 

A  stuffy  little  world  with  a  perceptible  odour! 
Ordinarily  he  had  the  common  insular  appetite  for 
ventilation,  but  now  stuffiness  appealed  to  him;  he 
scented  it  almost  voluptuously.  The  ugliness  of  the 
wallpaper,  of  the  furniture,  of  everything  in  the 
room  was  naught.  Christine's  profession  was 
naught.  Who  could  positively  say  that  her  profes- 
sion was  on  her  face,  in  her  gestures,  in  her  talk? 
Admirable  as  was  his  knowledge  of  French,  it  was 
not  enough  to  enable  him  to  criticise  her  speech. 
Her  gestures  were  delightful.  Her  face — her  face 
was  soft;  her  puckered  brow  was  touching  in  its 
ingenuousness.  She  had  a  kind  and  a  trustful  eye; 
it  was  a  lewd  eye,  indicative  of  her  incomparable 
endowment;  but  had  he  not  encountered  the  lewd 
eye  in  the  very  arcana  of  the  respectability  of  the 
world  outside?  On  the  sofa,  open  and  leaves  down- 
ward, lay  a  book  with  a  glistening  coloured  cover,  en- 
titled Fantomas.  It  was  the  seventh  volume  of  an  in- 
terminable romance  which  for  years  had  had  a 
tremendous  vogue  among  the  concierges,  the  work- 
girls,  the  clerks,  and  the  cocottes  of  Paris.  An  un- 
readable affair,  not  even  indecent,  which  neverthe- 
less had  enchanted  a  whole  generation.  To  be  able 
to  enjoy  it  was  an  absolute  demonstration  of  lack  of 


RENDEZVOUS  81 

taste;  but  did  not  some  of  his  best  friends  enjoy 
books  no  better?  And  could  he  not  any  day  in  any 
drawing-room  see  martyred  books  dropped  open 
and  leaves  downwards  in  a  manner  to  raise  the 
gorge  of  a  person  of  any  bookish  sensibility? 

"Thou  wilt  play  for  me?"  she  suggested. 

"But  the  headache?" 

"It  will  do  me  good.  I  adore  music,  such  music 
as  thou  playest." 

He  was  flattered.  The  draped  piano  was  close 
to  him.  Stretching  out  his  hand  he  took  a  little  pile 
of  music  from  the  top  of  it. 

"But  you  play,  then !"  he  exclaimed,  pleased. 

"No,  no  I     I  tap — only.     And  very  little." 

He  glanced  through  the  pieces  of  music.  They 
were  all,  without  exception,  waltzes,  by  the  once 
popular  waltz-kings  of  Paris  and  Vienna,  including 
several  by  the  king  of  kings,  Berger.  He  seated 
himself  at  the  piano  and  opened  the  first  waltz  that 
came. 

"Oh  I  I  adore  the  waltzes  of  Berger,"  she  mur- 
mured. "There  is  only  he.  You  don't  think  so?" 

He  said  he  had  never  heard  any  of  this  music. 
Then  he  played  every  piece  for  her.  He  tried  to 
see  what  it  was  in  this  music  that  so  pleased  the 
simple ;  and  he  saw  it,  or  he  thought  he  saw  it.  He 
abandoned  himself  to  the  music,  yielding  to  it,  ac- 
cepting its  ideals,  interpreting  it  as  though  it  moved 
him,  until  in  the  end  it  did  produce  in  him  a  sort  of 
factitious  emotion.  After  all,  it  was  no  worse  than 
much  of  the  music  he  was  forced  to  hear  in  very 
refined  circles. 


82  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

She  said,  ravished: 

"You  decipher  music  like  an  angel." 

And  hummed  a  fragment  of  the  waltz  from 
The  Rosenkavalier  which  he  had  played  for  her  two 
evenings  earlier.  He  glanced  round  sharply.  Had 
she,  then,  real  taste? 

"It  is  like  that,  isn't  it?"  she  questioned,  and 
hummed  it  again,  flattered  by  the  look  on  his  face. 

While,  at  her  invitation,  he  repeated  the  waltz  on 
the  piano,  whose  strings  might  have  been  made  of 
zinc,  he  heard  a  ring  at  the  outer  door  and  then  the 
muffled  sound  of  a  colloquy  between  a  male  voice  and 
the  voice  of  the  Italian.  "Of  course,"  he  admitted 
philosophically,  "she  has  other  clients  already." 
Such  a  woman  was  bound  to  have  other  clients.  He 
felt  no  jealousy,  nor  even  discomfort,  from  the  fact 
that  she  lent  herself  to  any  male  with  sufficient 
money  and  a  respectable  appearance.  The  colloquy 
expired. 

"Ring,  please,"  she  requested,  after  thanking  him. 
He  hoped  that  she  was  not  going  to  interrogate  the 
Italian  in  his  presence.  Surely  she  would  be  inca- 
pable of  such  clumsiness!  Still,  women  without 
imagination — and  the  majority  of  women  were  with- 
out imagination — did  do  the  most  astounding  things. 

There  was  no  immediate  answer  to  the  bell;  but 
in  a  few  minutes  the  Italian  entered  with  a  tea  tray. 
Christine  sat  up. 

"I  shall  pour  the  tea,"  said  she,  and  to  the  Italian : 
"Marthe,  where  is  the  evening  paper?"  And  when 
Marthe  returned  with  a  newspaper  damp  from  the 
press,  Christine  said :  "To  Monsieur.  .  .  .  ' 


RENDEZVOUS  83 

Not  a  word  of  curiosity  as  to  the  unknown 
visitor! 

G.  J.  was  amply  confirmed  in  his  original  opinion 
of  Christine.  She  was  one  in  a  hundred.  To  pro- 
vide the  evening  paper.  ...  It  was  nothing,  but 
it  was  enormous. 

"Sit  by  my  side,"  she  said.  She  made  just  a  little 
space  for  him  on  the  sofa — barely  enough,  so  that 
he  had  to  squeeze  in.  The  afternoon  tea  was  cor- 
rect, save  for  the  extraordinary  thickness  of  the 
bread-and-butter.  But  G.  J.  said  to  himself  that  the 
French  did  not  understand  bread-and-butter,  and  the 
Italians  still  less.  To  compensate  for  the  defects 
of  the  bread-and-butter  there  was  a  box  of  fine  choc- 
olates. 

"I  perfect  my  English,"  she  said.  Tea  was 
finished;  they  were  smoking,  the  Evening  News 
spread  between  them  over  the  tea-things.  She  ar- 
ticulated with  a  strong  French  accent  the  words  of 
some  of  the  headings.  "Mistair  Carlos  Smith 
keeled  at  the  front,"  she  read  out.  "Who  is  it, 
that  woman  there?  She  must  be  celebrated." 

There  was  a  portrait  of  the  illustrious  Conception, 
together  with  some  sympathetic  remarks  about  her, 
remarks  conceived  very  differently  from  the  usual 
semi-ironic,  semi-worshipping  journalistic  references 
to  the  stars  of  Concepcion's  set.  G.  J.  answered 
vaguely. 

"I  do  not  like  too  much  these  society  women. 
They  are  worse  than  us,  and  they  cost  you  more. 

Ahl     If  the  truth  were  known "     Christine 

spoke  with  a  queer,  restrained,  surprising  bitterness. 


84  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Then  she  added,  softly  relenting:  "However,  it  is 
sad  for  her.  .  .  .  Who  was  he,  this  monsieur?" 

G.  J.  replied  that  he  was  nobody  in  particular,  so 
far  as  his  knowledge  went. 

"Ah!  One  of  those  who  are  husbands  of  their 
^wives!"  said  Christine  acidly. 

The  disturbing  intuition  of  women ! 

A  little  later  he  said  that  he  must  depart. 

"But  why?     I  feel  better." 

"I  have  a  committee." 

"A  committee?" 

"It  is  a  work  of  charity — for  the  French 
wounded." 

"Ah!     In  that  case.    .    .    .   But,  beloved!" 

"Yes?" 

She  lowered  her  voice. 

"How  dost  thou  call  thyself?" 

"Gilbert." 

"Thou  knowest — I  have  a  fancy  for  thee." 

Her  tone  was  delicious,  its  sincerity  absolutely 
convincing. 

"Too  amiable." 

"No,  no.  It  is  true.  Say!  Return.  Return 
after  thy  committee.  Take  me  out  to  dinner — some 
gentle  little  restaurant,  discreet.  There  must  be 
many  of  them  in  a  city  like  London.  It  is  a  city  so 
romantic.  Oh!  The  little  corners  of  London!" 

"But — of  course.     I  should  be  enchanted " 

"Well,  then." 

He  was  standing.  She  raised  her  smiling,  se- 
ductive face.  She  was  young — younger  than  Con- 
cepcion;  less  battered  by  the  world's  contacts  than 


RENDEZVOUS  85 

Concepcion.  She  had  the  inexpressible  virtue  and 
power  of  youth.  He  was  nearing  fifty.  And  she, 
perhaps  half  his  age,  had  confessed  his  charm. 

"And  say!  My  Gilbert.  Bring  me  a  few 
flowers.  I  have  not  been  able  to  go  out  to-day. 
Something  very  simple.  I  detest  that  one  should 
squander  money  on  flowers  for  me." 

"Seven-thirty,"  then  1"  said  he.  "And  you  will  be 
ready?" 

"I  shall  be  very  exact.  Thou  wilt  tell  me  all  that 
concerns  thy  committee.  That  interests  me.  The 
English  are  extraordinary." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN   COMMITTEE 

WITHIN  the  hotel  the  glowing  gold  hall,  whose 
Lincrusta  Walton  panels  dated  it,  was  nearly  empty. 
Of  the  hundred  small  round  tables  only  one  was  oc- 
cupied; a  bald  head  and  a  large  green  hat  were 
almost  meeting  over  the  top  of  this  table,  but  there 
was  nothing  on  it  except  an  ash-tray.  A  waiter 
wandered  about  amid  the  thick  plushy  silence  and 
the  stagnant  pools  of  electric  light,  meditating  upon 
the  curse  which  had  befallen  the  world  of  hotels. 
The  red  lips  beneath  the  green  hat  discernibly  moved, 
but  no  faintest  murmur  therefrom  reached  the  en- 
trance. The  hot,  still  place  seemed  to  be  enchanted. 

The  sight  of  the  hotel  flower-stall  recessed  on  the 
left  reminded  G.  J.  of  Christine's  desire.  Forty 
thousand  skilled  women  had  been  put  out  of  work 
in  England  because  luxury  was  scared  by  the  sudden 
vista  of  war,  but  the  black-garbed  girl,  entrenched 
in  her  mahogany  bower,  was  still  earning  some  sort 
of  a  livelihood.  In  a  moment,  wakened  out  of  her 
terrible  boredom  into  an  alert  smile,  she  had  sold 
to  G.  J.  a  bunch  of  expensive  chrysanthemums  whose 
yellow  petals  were  like  long  curly  locks.  Thought- 
less, he  had  meant  to  have  the  flowers  delivered  at 
once  to  Christine's  flat.  It  would  not  do;  it  would 

86 


IN  COMMITTEE  87 

be  indiscreet.  And  somehow,  in  the  absence  of 
Braiding,  it  would  be  equally  indiscreet  to  have  them 
delivered  at  his  own  flat. 

"I  shall  be  leaving  the  hotel  in  about  an  hour; 
I'll  take  them  away  myself  then,"  he  said,  and 
inquired  for  the  headquarters  of  the  Lechford 
French  Hospitals  Committee. 

"Committee?"  repeated  the  girl  vaguely.  "I 
expect  the  Onyx  Hall's  what  you  want."  She 
pointed  up  a  corridor,  and  gave  change. 

G.  J.  discovered  the  Onyx  Hall,  which  had  its  own 
entrance  from  the  street,  and  which  in  other  days 
had  been  a  cafe  lounge.  The  precious  pavement 
was  now  half  hidden  by  wooden  trestles,  wooden 
cubicles,  and  cheap  chairs.  Temporary  flexes 
brought  down  electric  light  from  a  stained  glass 
dome  to  illuminate  card  indexes  and  pigeonholes 
and  piles  of  letters.  Notices  in  French  and  Flemish 
were  suspended  from  the  ornate  onyx  pilasters. 
Old  countrywomen  and  children  in  rough  foreign 
clothes,  smart  officers  in  strange  uniforms,  privates 
in  shabby  blue,  gentlemen  in  morning  coats  and  spats, 
and  untidy  Englishwomen  with  eyes  romantic,  hard, 
or  wistful,  were  mixed  together  in  the  Onyx  Hall, 
where  there  was  no  enchantment  and  little  order, 
save  that  good  French  seemed  to  be  regularly  spoken 
on  one  side  of  the  trestles  and  regularly  assassinated 
on  the  other.  G.  J.,  mystified,  caught  the  grey  eye 
of  a  youngish  woman  with  a  tired  and  fretful  ex- 
pression. 

"And  you?"  she  inquired  perfunctorily. 

He  demanded,  with  hesitation: 


88  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"Is  this  the  Lechford  Committee?" 

"The  what  Committee?" 

"The  Lechford  Committee  headquarters."  He 
thought  she  might  be  rather  an  attractive  little  thing 
at,  say,  an  evening  party. 

She  gave  him  a  sardonic  look  and  answered,  not 
rudely,  but  with  large  tolerance: 

"Can't  you  read?" 

By  means  of  a  gesture  scarcely  perceptible  she 
directed  his  attention  to  an  immense  linen  sign 
stretched  across  the  back  of  the  big  room,  and  he 
saw  that  he  was  in  the  ant  heap  of  some  Belgian 
Committee. 

"So  sorry  to  have  troubled  you!"  he  apologised. 
"I  suppose  you  don't  happen  to  know  where  the 
Lechford  Committee  sits?" 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  said  she  with  cheerful  dis- 
dain. Then  she  smiled  and  he  smiled.  "You  know, 
the  hotel  simply  hums  with  committees,  but  this  is 
the  biggest  by  a  long  way.  They  can't  let  their 
rooms,  so  it  costs  them  nothing  to  lend  them  for 
patriotic  purposes." 

He  liked  the  chit. 

Presently,  with  a  page-boy,  he  was  ascending  in  a 
lift  through  storey  after  storey  of  silent  carpeted 
desert.  Light  alternated  with  darkness,  winking 
like  a  succession  of  days  and  nights  as  seen  by  a  god. 
The  infant  showed  him  into  a  private  parlour  fur- 
nished and  decorated  in  almost  precisely  the  same 
taste  as  Christine's  sitting  room,  where  a  number  of 
men  and  women  sat  close  together  at  a  long  deal 
table,  whose  pale,  classic  simplicity  clashed  with  the 


IN  COMMITTEE  89 

rest  of  the  apartment.  A  thin,  dark,  middle-aged 
man  of  austere  visage  bowed  to  him  from  the  head 
of  the  table.  Somebody  else  indicated  a  chair, 
which,  with  a  hideous,  noisy  scraping  over  the  bare 
floor,  he  modestly  insinuated  between  two  occupied 
chairs.  A  third  person  offered  a  typewritten  sheet 
containing  the  agenda  of  the  meeting.  A  blonde  girl 
was  reading  in  earnest,  timid  tones  the  minutes  of 
the  previous  meeting.  The  affair  had  just  begun. 
As  soon  as  the  minutes  had  been  passed  the  austere 
chairman  turned  and  said  evenly: 

"I  am  sure  I  am  expressing  the  feelings  of  the 
committee  in  welcoming  among  us  Mr.  Hoape,  who 
has  so  kindly  consented  to  join  us  and  to  give  us  the 
benefit  of  his  help  and  advice  in  our  labours." 

Sympathetic  murmurs  converged  upon  G.  J.  from 
the  four  sides  of  the  table,  and  G.  J.  nervously  mur- 
mured a  few  incomprehensible  words,  feeling  both 
foolish  and  pleased.  He  had  never  sat  on  a  com- 
mittee; and  as  his  war-conscience  troubled  him  more 
and  more  daily,  he  was  extremely  anxious  to  start 
work  which  might  placate  it.  Indeed,  he  had  seized 
upon  the  request  to  join  the  committee  as  a  swimmer 
in  difficulties  clasps  the  gunwale  of  a  dinghy. 

A  man  who  kept  his  gaze  steadily  on  the  table 
cleared  his  throat  and  said: 

"The  matter  is  not  in  order,  Mr.  Chairman,  but 
I  am  sure  I  am  expressing  the  feelings  of  the  com- 
mittee in  proposing  a  vote  of  condolence  to  yourself 
on  the  terrible  loss  which  you  have  sustained  in  the 
death  of  your  son  at  the  Front." 

"I  beg  to  second  that,"  said  a  lady  quickly.  "Our 


90  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

chairman  has  given  his  only  son "  Tears  came 

into  her  eyes ;  she  seemed  to  appeal  for  help.  There 
was  "Hear,  hears,"  and  more  sympathetic  mur- 
murs. 

The  proposer,  with  his  gaze  still  steadily  fixed  on 
the  table,  said : 

"I  beg  to  put  the  resolution  to  the  meeting." 

"Yes,"  said  the  chairman  with  calm  self-control 
in  the  course  of  his  acknowledgment.  "And  if  I 
had  ten  sons  I  would  willingly  give  them  all — for 
the  cause."  And  his  firm,  hard  glance  appeared  to 
challenge  any  member  of  the  committee  to  assert 
that  this  profession  of  parental  and  patriotic  gener- 
osity of  heart  was  not  utterly  sincere.  However, 
nobody  had  the  air  of  doubting  that  if  the  chairman 
had  had  ten  sons,  or  as  many  sons  as  Solomon,  he 
would  have  sacrificed  them  all  with  the  most  admir- 
able and  eager  heroism. 

The  agenda  was  opened.  G.  J.  had  little  but 
newspaper  knowledge  of  the  enterprises  of  the  com- 
mittee, and  it  would  not  have  been  proper  to  waste 
the  time  of  so  numerous  a  company  in  enlightening 
him.  The  commonsense  custom  evidently  was  that 
new  members  should  "pick  up  the  threads  as  they 
went  along."  G.  J.  honestly  tried  to  do  so.  But  he 
was  preoccupied  with  the  personalities  of  the  com- 
mittee. He  soon  saw  that  the  whole  body  was 
effectively  divided  into  two  classes — the  chairmen  of 
the  various  sub-committees,  and  the  rest.  Few  mem- 
bers were  interested  in  any  particular  subject.  Those 
who  were  not  interested  either  stared  at  the  walls 
or  at  the  agenda  paper,  or  laboriously  drew  intricate 


IN  COMMITTEE  91 

and  meaningless  designs  on  the  agenda  paper, 
or  folded  up  the  agenda  paper  into  fantastic 
shapes  until,  when  someone  in  authority  brought 
out  the  formula,  "I  think  the  view  of  the 

committee  will  be "   a   resolution  was  put  and 

the  issue  settled  by  the  mechanical  raising  of  hands 
on  the  fulcrum  of  the  elbow.  And  at  each  raising 
of  hands  everybody  felt  that  something  positive  had 
indeed  been  accomplished. 

The  new  member  was  a  little  discouraged.  He 
had  the  illusion  that  the  two  hospitals  run  in  France 
for  French  soldiers  by  the  Lechford  Committee 
were  an  illusion,  that  they  did  -not  really  exist,  that 
the  committee  was  discussing  an  abstraction.  Never- 
theless, each  problem  as  it  was  presented — the 
drains  (postponed),  the  repairs  to  the  motor-am- 
bulances, the  ordering  of  a  new  X-ray  apparatus, 
the  dilatoriness  of  a  French  Minister  in  dealing  with 
correspondence,  the  cost  per  day  per  patient,  the 
relations  with  the  French  civil  authorities  and  the 
French  military  authorities,  the  appointment  of  a 
new  matron  who  could  keep  the  peace  with  the  senior 
doctor,  and  the  great  principle  involved  in  deducting 
five  francs  fifty  centimes  for  excess  luggage  from  a 
nurse's  account  for  travelling  expenses — each  prob- 
lem helped  to  demonstrate  that  the  hospitals  did 
exist  and  that  men  and  women  were  toiling  therein, 
and  that  French  soldiers  in  -grave  need  were  being 
magnificently  cared  for  and  even  saved  from  death. 
And  it  was  plain,  too,  that  none  of  these  excellent 
things  could  have  come  to  pass  or  could  continue  to 
occur  if  the  committee  did  not  regularly  sit  round 


92  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

the  table  and  at  short  intervals  perform  the  rite  of 
raising  hands.    .    .    . 

G.  J.'s  attention  wandered.  He  could  not  keep 
his  mind  off  the  thought  that  he  should  soon  be 
seeing  Christine  again.  Sitting  at  the  table  with  a 
mien  of  intelligent  interest,  he  had  a  waking  dream 
of  Christine.  He  saw  her  just  as  she  was — ingenu- 
ous, and  ignorant  if  you  like — except  that  she  was 
pure.  Her  purity,  though,  had  not  cooled  her  tem- 
perament, and  thus  she  combined  in  herself  the 
characteristics  of  at  least  two  different  women,  both 
of  whom  were  necessary  to  his  happiness.  And  she 
was  his  wife,  and  they  lived  in  a  roomy  house  in 
Hyde  Park  Gardens,  and  the  war  was  over.  And 
she  adored  him  and  he  was  passionately  fond  of  her. 
And  she  was  always  having  children;  she  enjoyed 
having  children;  she  demanded  children;  she  had  a 
child  every  year  and  there  was  never  any  trouble. 
And  he  never  admired  her  more  poignantly  than  at 
the  periods  just  before  his  children  were  born,  when 
she  had  the  vast,  exquisitely  swelling  figure  of  the 
French  Renaissance  Virgin  in  marble  that  stood  on 
a  console  in  his  drawing-room  at  the  Albany.  .  .  . 
Such  was  G.  J.'s  dream  as  he  assisted  in  the  control 
of  the  Lechford  hospitals.  Emerging  from  it  he 
looked  along  the  table.  Quite  half  the  members 
were  dreaming  too,  and  he  wondered  what  thoughts 
were  moving  secretly  within  them.  But  the  chair- 
man was  not  dreaming.  He  never  loosed  his  grasp 
of  the  matter  in  hand.  Nor  did  the  earnest  young 
blonde  by  the  chairman's  side  who  took  down  in 
stenography  the  decisions  of  the  committee. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

QUEEN 

THEN  Lady  Queenie  Paulle  entered  rather 
hurriedly,  filling  the  room  with  a  distinguished  scent. 
All  the  men  rose  in  haste,  and  there  was  a  frightful 
scraping  of  chair-legs  on  the  floor.  Lady  Queenie 
cheerfully  apologised  for  being  late,  and,  begging  no 
one  to  disturb  himself,  took  a  modest  place  between 
the  chairman  and  the  secretary  and  a  little  behind 
them. 

Lady  Queenie  obviously  had  what  is  called  "race." 
The  renown  of  her  family  went  back  far,  far  beyond 
its  special  Victorian  vogue,  which  had  transformed 
an  earldom  into  a  marquisate  and  which,  incident- 
ally, was  responsible  for  the  new  family  Christian 
name  that  Queenie  herself  bore.  She  was  young, 
tall,  slim  and  pale,  and  dressed  with  the  utmost 
smartness  in  black — her  half-brother  having  glo- 
riously lost  his  life  in  September.  She  nodded  to 
the  secretary,  who  blushed  with  pleasure,  and  she 
nodded  to  several  members,  including  G.  J.  Being 
accustomed  to  publicity  and  to  seeing  herself  nearly 
every  week  in  either  The  Taller  or  The  Sketch,  she 
was  perfectly  at  ease  in  the  room,  and  the  fact  that 
nearly  the  whole  company  turned  to  her  as  plants  to 
the  sun  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  her. 

The  attention  which  she  received  was  her  due, 

93 


94  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

for  she  had  few  rivals  as  a  war-worker.  She  was 
connected  with  the  Queen's  Work  for  Women 
Fund,  Queen  Mary's  Needlework  Guild,  the  Three 
Arts  Fund,  the  Women's  Emergency  Corps,  and 
many  minor  organisations.  She  had  joined  a  Wo- 
men's Suffrage  Society  because  such  societies  were 
being  utilised  by  the  Government.  She  had  had  ten 
lessons  in  First  Aid  in  ten  days,  had  donned  the  Red 
Cross,  and  had  gone  to  France  with  two  motor-cars 
and  a  staff  and  a  French  maid  in  order  to  help  in  the 
great  national  work  of  nursing  wounded  heroes; 
and  she  might  still  have  been  in  France  had  not  an 
unsympathetic  and  audacious  colonel  of  the 
R.A.M.C.  insisted  on  her  being  shipped  back  to 
England.  She  had  done  practically  everything  that 
a  patriotic  girl  could  do  for  the  war,  except,  perhaps, 
join  a  Voluntary  Aid  Detachment  and  wash  dishes 
and  scrub  floors  for  fifteen  hours  a  day  and  thirteen 
and  a  half  days  a  fortnight.  It  was  from  her  mother 
that  she  had  inherited  the  passion  for  public  service. 
The  Marchioness  of  Lechford  had  been  the  cause  of 
more  philanthropic  work  in  others  than  any  woman 
in  the  whole  history  of  philanthropy.  Lady  Lech- 
ford  had  said,  "Let  there  be  Lechford  Hospitals  in 
France,"  and  lo !  there  were  Lechford  Hospitals  in 
France.  When  troublesome  complications  arose 
Lady  Lechford  had,  with  true  self-effacement,  sur- 
rendered the  establishments  to  a  thoroughly  com- 
petent committee,  and  while  retaining  a  seat  on  the 
committee  for  herself  and  another  for  Queenie,  had 
curved  tirelessly  away  to  the  inauguration  of  fresher 
and  more  exciting  schemes. 


QUEEN  95 

"Mamma  was  very  sorry  she  couldn't  come  this 
afternoon,"  said  Lady  Queenie,  addressing  the  chair- 
man. 

The  formula  of  those  with  authority  in  deciding 
now  became: 

"I  don't  know  exactly  what  Lady  Lechford's  view 
is,  but  I  venture  to  think. " 

Then  suddenly  the  demeanour  of  every  member 
of  the  committee  was  quickened,  everybody  listened 
intently  to  everything  that  was  said;  a  couple  of 
members  would  speak  together;  pattern  designing 
and  the  manufacture  of  paper  ships,  chains,  and  flow- 
ers ceased:  it  was  as  though  a  tonic  had  been  myste- 
riously administered  to  each  individual  in  the  ener- 
vating room.  The  cause  of  the  change  was  a  recom- 
mendation from  the  hospitals  management  sub-com- 
mittee that  it  be  an  instruction  to  the  new  matron  of 
the  smaller  hospital  to  forbid  any  nurse  and  any 
doctor  to  go  out  alone  together  in  the  evening.  Scan- 
dal was  insinuated;  nothing  really  wrong,  but  a  bad 
impression  produced  upon  the  civilians  of  the  tiny 
town,  who  could  not  be  expected  to  understand  the 
holy  innocence  which  underlies  the  superficial  license 
of  Anglo-Saxon  manners.  The  personal  characters 
and  strange  idiosyncrasies  of  every  doctor  and 
every  nurse  were  discussed;  broad  principles  of  con- 
duct were  enunciated,  together  with  the  advantages 
and  disadvantages  of  those  opposite  poles,  discipline 
and  freedom.  The  argument  continually  expanded, 
branching  forth  like  the  timber  of  a  great  oak-tree 
from  the  trunk,  and  the  minds  of  the  committee  ran 
about  the  tree  like  monkeys.  The  interest  was  end- 


96  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

less.  A  quiet  delegate  who  had  just  returned  from 
a  visit  to  the  tiny  town  completely  blasted  one  part 
of  the  argument  by  asserting  that  the  hospital  bore 
a  blameless  reputation  among  the  citizens;  but  new 
arguments  were  instantly  constructed  by  the  adher- 
ents of  the  idea  of  discipline.  The  committee  had 
plainly  split  into  two  even  parties.  G.  J.  began  to 
resent  the  harshness  of  the  disciplinarians. 

"I  think  we  should  remember,"  he  said  in  his 
modest  voice,  "I  think  we  should  remember  that  we 
are  dealing  with  adult  men  and  women.'* 

The  libertarians  at  once  took  him  for  their  own. 
The  disciplinarians  gave  him  to  understand  with 
their  eyes  that  it  might  have  been  better  if  he,  as  a 
new  member  attending  his  first  meeting,  had  kept 
silence.  The  discussion  was  inflamed.  One  or  two 
people  glanced  surreptitiously  at  their  watches.  The 
hour  had  long  passed  six-thirty.  G.  J.  grew  anxious 
about  his  rendezvous  with  Christine.  He  had  en- 
joined exactitude  upon  Christine.  But  the  main  body 
of  the  excited  and  happy  committee  had  no  thought 
of  the  flight  of  time.  The  amusements  of  the  tiny 
town  came  up  for  review.  As  a  fact,  there  was  only 
one  amusement,  the  cinema.  The  whole  town  went 
to  the  cinema.  Cinemas  were  always  darkened; 
human  nature  was  human  nature.  .  .  .  G.  J.  had 
an  extraordinarily  realistic  vision  of  the  hospital 
staff  slaving  through  its  long  and  heavy  day  and  its 
everlasting  week  and  preparing  in  sections  to  amuse 
itself  on  certain  evenings,  and  thinking  with  pleasant 
anticipation  of  the  ecstasies  of  the  cinema,  and  pa- 
thetically unsuspicious  that  its  fate  was  being  decided 


QUEEN  9Ti 

by  a  council  of  omnipotent  deities  in  the  heaven  of  a 
London  hotel. 

"Mamma  has  never  mentioned  the  subject  to  me," 
said  Lady  Queenie  in  response  to  a  question,  looking 
at  her  rich  muff. 

"This  is  a  question  of  principle,"  said  somebody 
sharply,  implying  that  at  last  individual  consciences 
were  involved  and  that  the  opinions  of  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Lechford  had  ceased  to  weigh. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  getting  late,"  said  the  impassive 
chairman.  "We  must  come  to  some  decision." 

In  the  voting  Lady  Queenie,  after  hesitation, 
raised  her  hand  with  the  disciplinarians.  By  one 
vote  the  libertarians  were  defeated,  and  the  dal- 
liance of  the  hospital  staff  in  leisure  hours  received 
a  severe  check. 

"She  would — of  course!"  breathed  a  sharp-nosed 
little  woman  in  the  chair  next  but  one  to  G.  J.,  gazing 
inimically  at  the  lax  mouth  and  cynical  eyes  of  Lady 
Queenie,  who  for  four  years  had  been  the  subject  of 
universal  whispering,  and  some  shouting,  and  one  or 
two  ferocious  battles  in  London. 

Chair-legs  scraped.  People  rose  here  and  there 
to  go  as  they  rise  in  a  music  hall  after  the  Scottish 
comedian  has  retired,  bowing,  from  his  final  encore. 
They  protested  urgent  appointments  elsewhere.  The 
chairman  remarked  that  other  important  decisions 
yet  remained  to  be  taken;  but  his  voice  had  no  in- 
sistence because  he  had  already  settled  the  decisions 
in  his  own  mind.  G.  J.  seized  the  occasion  to  de- 
part. 

"Mr.   Hoape,"   the   chairman   detained   him   a 


98  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

moment.  "The  committee  hope  you  will  allow 
yourself  to  be  nominated  to  the  accounts  sub-com- 
mittee. We  understand  that  you  are  by  way  of  being 
an  expert.  The  sub-committee  meets  on  Wednes- 
day mornings  at  eleven — doesn't  it,  Sir  Charles?" 

"Half-past,"  said  Sir  Charles. 

"Oh!    Half-past." 

G.  J.,  somewhat  surprised  to  learn  of  his  expert- 
ness  in  accountancy,  consented  to  the  suggestion, 
which  renewed  his  resolution,  impaired  somewhat  by 
the  experience  of  the  meeting,  to  be  of  service  in  the 
world. 

"You  will  receive  the  notice,  of  course,"  said  the 
chairman. 

Down  below,  just  as  G.  J.  was  getting  away  wtih 
Christine's  chrysanthemums  in  their  tissue  paper, 
Lady  Queenie  darted  out  of  the  lift  opposite.  It 
was  she  who,  at  Concepcion's  instigation,  had  had 
him  put  on  the  committee. 

"I  say,  Queen,"  he  said  with  a  casual  air — on 
account  of  the  flowers,  "who's  been  telling  'em  I 
know  about  accounts?" 

"I  did." 

"Why?" 

"Why?"  she  said  maliciously.  "Don't  you  keep 
an  account  of  every  penny  you  spend?"  (It  was 
true. ) 

Here  was  a  fair  example  of  her  sardonic  and  un- 
scrupulous humour — a  humour  not  of  words  but  of 
acts.  G.  J.  simply  tossed  his  head,  aware  of  the 
.futility  of  expostulation. 

She  went  on  in  a  different  tone : 


QUEEN  99 

"You  were  the  first  to  see  Connie?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  sadly. 

"She  has  lain  in  my  arms  all  afternoon,"  Lady 
Queenie  burst  out,  her  voice  liquid.  "And  now  I'm 
going  straight  back  to  her."  She  looked  at  him 
with  the  strangest  triumphant  expression.  Then 
her  large,  equivocal  blue  eyes  fell  from  his  face  to 
the  flowers,  and  their  expression  simultaneously  al- 
tered to  disdainful  amusement  full  of  mischievous 
implications.  She  ran  off  without  another  word.  The 
glazed  entrance  doors  revolved,  and  he  saw  her  nip 
into  an  electric  brougham,  which,  before  he  had 
time  to  button  his  overcoat,  vanished  like  an  appa- 
rition in  the  rainy  mist 


CHAPTER  XV 

EVENING    OUT 

HE  found  Christine  exactly  as  he  had  left  her,  in 
the  same  tea-gown  and  the  same  posture,  and  on  the 
same  sofa.  But  a  small  table  had  been  put  by  the 
sofa;  and  on  this  table  was  a  penny  bottle  of  ink 
in  a  saucer,  and  a  pen.  She  was  studying  some  kind 
of  official  form.  The  pucker  between  the  eyes  was 
very  marked. 

"Already!"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  amazed.  "But 
there  is  not  a  clock  that  goes,  and  I  had  not  the  least 
idea  of  the  hour.  Besides,  I  was  splitting  my  head 
to  fill  up  this  form." 

Such  was  her  notion  of  being  exact!  He  had 
abandoned  an  important  meeting  of  a  committee 
which  was  doing  untold  mercies  to  her  compatriots 
in  order  to  keep  his  appointment  with  her;  and  she, 
whose  professional  business  it  was  that  evening  to 
charm  him  and  harmonise  with  him,  had  merely 
flouted  the  appointment.  Nevertheless,  her  ges- 
tures and  smile  as  she  rose  and  came  towards  him 
were  so  utterly  exquisite  that  immediately  he  also 
flouted  the  appointment.  What,  after  all,  could  it 
matter  whether  they  dined  at  eight,  nine,  or  even  ten 
o'clock? 

"Thou  wilt  pardon  me,  monster?"  she  murmured, 
kissing  him. 

100 


EVENING  OUT  101 

No  woman  had  ever  put  her  chin  up  to  his  as  she 
did,  nor  with  a  glance  expressed  so  unreserved  a  sur- 
render to  his  masculinity. 

She  went  on,  twining  languishingly  round  him : 

"I  do  not  know  whether  I  ought  to  go  out.  I 
am  yet  far  from It  is  perhaps  imprudent." 

"Absurd!"  he  protested — he  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  her  not  dining  with  him.  He  knew  too 
well  the  desolation  of  a  solitary  dinner.  "Absurd! 
We  go  in  a  taxi.  The  restaurant  is  warm.  We 
return  in  a  taxi." 

"To  please  thee,  then." 

"What  is  that  form?" 

"It  is  for  the  telephone.  Thou  understandest 
how  it  is  necessary  that  I  have  the  telephone — me ! 
But  I  comprehend  nothing  of  this  form." 

She  passed  him  the  form.  She  had  written  her 
name  in  the  space  allotted.  "Christine  Dubois." 
A  fair  calligraphy!  But  what  a  name!  The 
French  equivalent  of  "Smith."  Nothing  could  be 
less  distinguished.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that 
Concepcion's  name  also  was  Smith. 

"I  shall  fill  it  up  for  you.    It  is  quite  simple." 

"It  is  possible  that  it  is  simple  when  one  is  English. 
But  English — that  is  as  if  to  say  Chinese.  Every- 
thing contrary.  Here  is  a  pen." 

"No.  I  have  my  fountain  pen."  He  hated  a 
cheap  pen,  and  still  more  a  penny  bottle  of  ink,  but 
somehow  this  particular  penny  bottle  of  ink  seemed 
touching  in  its  simple  ugliness.  She  was  eminently 
teachable.  He  would  teach  her  his  own  attitude 
towards  penny  bottles  of  ink.  ...  Of  course  she 


102  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

would  need  the  telephone — that  could  not  be  denied. 

As  Christine  was  signing  the  form  Marthe  en- 
tered with  the  chrysanthemums,  which  he  had 
handed  over  to  her;  she  had  arranged  them  in  a 
horrible  blue  glass  vase  cheaply  gilded;  and  while 
Marthe  was  putting  the  vase  on  the  small  table 
there  was  a  ring  at  the  outer  door.  Marthe  hurried 
off. 

Christine  said,  kissing  him  again  tenderly : 

"Thou  art  a  squanderer  I  Fine  for  me  to  tell 
thee  not  to  buy  costly  flowers!  Thou  hast  spent  at 
least  ten  shillings  for  these.  With  ten  shill- 
ings  " 

"No,  no  I"  he  interrupted  her.  "Five."  It  was 
a  fib.  He  had  paid  half  a  guinea  for  the  few 
flowers,  but  he  could  not  confess  it. 

They  could  hear  a  powerful  voice  indistinctly 
booming  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  "Two  callers  on 
one  afternoon!"  G.  J.  reflected.  And  yet  she  had 
told  him  she  went  out  for  the  first  time  only  the  day 
before  yesterday!  He  scarcely  liked  it,  but  his 
reason  rescued  him  from  the  puerility  of  a  grievance 
against  her  on  this  account.  "And  why  not?  She 
is  bound  to  be  a  marked  success." 

Marthe  returned  to  the  drawing-room  and  shut 
the  door. 

"Madame "  she  began,  slightly  agitated. 

"Speak,  then!"  Christine  urged,  catching  her  agi- 
tation. 

"It  is  the  police!" 

G.  J.  had  a  shock.  He  knew  many  of  the  police- 
men who  lurked  in  the  dark  doorways  of  Piccadilly 


EVENING  OUT  103 

at  night,  had  little  friendly  talks  with  them,  held 
them  for  excellent  fellows.  But  a  policeman  invad- 
ing the  flat  of  a  courtesan,  and  himself  in  the  flat, 
seemed  a  different  being  from  the  honest  stalwarts 
who  threw  the  beams  of  lanterns  on  the  key-holes  of 
jewellers'  shops. 

Christine  steeled  herself  to  meet  the  crisis  with 
self-reliance.  She  pointedly  did  not  appeal  to  the 
male. 

"Well,  what  is  it  that  he  wants?" 

"He  talks  of  the  chimney.  It  appears  this  morn- 
ing there  was  a  chimney  on  fire.  But  since  we  burn 

only  anthracite  and  gas >  He  knows  madame's 

name." 

There  was  a  pause.  Christine  asked  sharply  and 
mysteriously: 

"How  much  do  you  think?" 

"If  madame  gave  five  pounds — having  regard  to 
the  chic  of  the  quarter." 

Christine  rushed  into  the  bedroom  and  came 
back  with  a  five-pound  note. 

"Here !  Chuck  that  at  him — politely.  Tell  him 
we  are  very  sorry." 

"Yes,  madame." 

"But  he'll  never  take  it.  You  can't  treat  the  Lon- 
don police  like  that!"  G.  J.  could  not  help  expostu- 
lating as  soon  as  Marthe  had  gone.  He  feared  some 
trouble. 

"My  poor  friend!"  Christine  replied  patronising- 
ly.  "Thou  art  not  up  in  these  things.  Marthe 
knows  her  affair — a  woman  very  experienced  in 
London.  He  will  take  it,  thy  policeman.  And  if 


f|04f  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

I  do  not  deceive  myself  no  more  chimneys  will  burn 
for  about  a  year.  .  .  .  Ah!  The  police  do  not 
wipe  their  noses  with  broken  bottles!"  (She  meant 
that  the  police  knew  their  way  about.)  "I  no  more 
than  they,  I  do  not  wipe  my  nose  with  broken 
bottles." 

She  was  moved,  indignant,  stoutly  defensive. 
G.  J.  grew  self-conscious.  Moreover,  her  slang  dis- 
turbed him.  It  was  the  first  slang  he  had  heard  her 
use,  and  in  using  it  her  voice  had  roughened.  But 
he  remembered  that  Concepcion  also  used  slang — 
and  advanced  slang — upon  occasion. 

The  booming  ceased;  a  door  closed.  Marthe  re- 
turned once  more. 

"Well?" 

"He  is  gone.  He  was  very  nice,  madame.  I  told 
him  about  madame — that  madame  was  very  dis- 
creet." Marthe  finished  in  a  murmur. 

"So  much  the  better.  Now  help  me  to  dress. 
Quick,  quick!  Monsieur  will  be  impatient." 

G.  J.  was  ashamed  of  the  innocence  he  had  dis- 
played, and  ashamed,  too,  of  the  whole  Metropolitan 
Police  Force,  admirable  though  it  was  in  stopping 
traffic  for  a  perambulator  to  cross  the  road.  Five 
pounds!  These  ladies  were  bled.  Five  pounds 
wanted  earning.  ...  It  was  a  good  sign,  though, 
that  she  had  not  so  far  asked  him  to  contribute. 
And  he  felt  sure  that  she  would  not. 

"Come  in,  then,  poltroon!"  She  cooed  softly  and 
encouragingly  from  the  bedroom,  where  Marthe  was 
busy  with  her. 

The  door  between  the  bedroom  and  the  drawing- 


EVENING  OUT  105 

room  was  open.  G.  J.,  humming,  obeyed  the  invi- 
tation and  sat  down  on  the  bed  between  two  heaps 
of  clothes.  Christine  was  very  gay;  she  was  like 
a  child.  She  had  apparently  quite  forgotten  her 
migraine  and  also  the  incident  of  the  policeman.  She 
snatched  the  cigarette  from  G.  J.'s  mouth,  took  a 
puff,  and  put  it  back  again.  Then  she  sat  in  front 
of  the  large  mirror  and  did  her  hair  while  Marthe 
buttoned  her  boots.  Her  corset  fitted  beautifully, 
and  as  she  raised  her  arms  above  her  head  under 
the  shaded  lamp  G.  J.  could  study  the  marvellous 
articulation  of  the  arms  at  the  bare  shoulders.  The 
close  atmosphere  was  drenched  with  femininity. 
The  two  women,  one  so  stylish  and  the  other  by 
contrast  piquantly  a  heavy  slattern,  hid  nothing  what- 
ever from  him,  bestowing  on  him  with  perfect  tran- 
quillity the  right  to  be  there  and  to  watch  at  his  ease 
every  mysterious  transaction.  .  .  .  The  most  con- 
vincing proof  that  Christine  was  authentically  young! 
And  G.  J.  had  the  illusion  again  that  he  was  in  the 
Orient,  and  it  was  extraordinarily  agreeable.  The 
recollection  of  the  scene  of  the  Lechford  Committee 
amused  him  like  a  pantomime  witnessed  afar  off 
through  a  gauze  curtain.  It  had  no  more  reality 
than  that.  But  he  thought  better  of  the  committee 
now.  He  perceived  the  wonderful  goodness  of  it 
and  of  its  work.  It  really  was  running  those  real 
hospitals;  it  had  a  real  interest  in  them.  He  meant 
to  do  his  very  best  in  the  accounts  department.  After 
all,  he  had  been  a  lawyer  and  knew  the  routine  of  an 
office  and  the  minutest  phenomena  of  a  ledger.  He 
was  eager  to  begin. 


106  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"How  findest  them  me?" 

She  stood  for  inspection. 

She  was  ready,  except  the  gloves.  The  angle  of 
her  hat,  the  provocation  of  her  veil — these  things 
would  have  quickened  the  pulse  of  a  Patagonian. 
Perfume  pervaded  the  room. 

He  gave  the  classic  response  that  nothing  could 
render  trite: 

"Tu  es  exquise." 

She  raised  her  veil  just  above  her  mouth.  .  .  . 

In  the  drawing-room  she  hesitated,  and  then  set- 
tled down  on  the  piano  stool  like  a  bird  alighting  and 
played  a  few  bars  from  the  Rosenkavalier  waltz. 
He  was  thunderstruck,  for  she  had  got  not  only  the 
air  but  some  of  the  accompaniment  right. 

"Go  on!    Go  on!"  he  urged  her,  marvelling. 

She  turned,  smiling,  and  shook  her  head. 

"That  is  all  that  I  can  recall  to  myself." 

The  obvious  sincerity  of  his  appreciation  delighted 
her. 

"She  is  really  musical!"  he  thought,  and  was  con- 
vinced that  while  looking  for  a  bit  of  coloured  glass 
he  had  picked  up  an  emerald.  Marthe  produced  his 
overcoat,  and  when  he  was  ready  for  the  street  Chris- 
tine gazed  at  him  and  said: 

"For  the  true  chic,  there  are  only  Englishmen!" 

In  the  taxi  she  proved  to  him  by  delicate  effront- 
eries the  genuineness  of  her  confessed  "fancy"  for 
him.  And  she  poured  out  slang.  He  began  to  be 
afraid,  for  this  excursion  was  an  experiment  such 
as  he  had  never  tried  before  in  London;  in  Paris, 
of  course,  the  code  was  otherwise.  But  as  soon  as 


EVENING  OUT  107 

the  commissionaire  of  the  restaurant  at  Victoria  ap- 
proached the  door  of  the  taxi  her  manner  changed. 
She  walked  up  the  long  interior  with  the  demureness 
of  a  stockbroker's  young  wife  out  for  the  evening 
from  Putney  Hill.  He  thought,  relieved,  "She  is  the 
embodiment  of  common  sense."  At  the  end  of  the 
vista  of  white  tables  the  restaurant  opened  out  to 
the  left.  In  a  far  corner  they  were  comfortably 
secure  from  observation.  They  sat  down.  A  waiter 
beamed  his  flatteries  upon  them.  G.  J.  was  serenely 
aware  of  his  own  skilled  faculty  for  ordering  a 
dinner.  He  looked  over  the  menu  card  at  Christine. 
Nobody  could  possibly  tell  that  she  was  a  professed 
enemy  of  society.  "These  French  women  are  as- 
tounding!" he  thought.  He  intensely  admired  her. 
He  was  mad  about  her.  His  bliss  was  extreme.  He 
could  not  keep  it  within  bounds  meet  for  the  great 
world-catastrophe.  He  was  happy  as  for  quite  ten 
years  he  had  never  hoped  to  be.  Yes,  he  grieved 
for  Concepcion ;  but  somehow  grief  could  not  mingle 
with  nor  impair  the  happiness  he  felt.  And  was  not 
Concepcion  lying  in  the  affectionate  arms  of  Queenie 
Paulle? 

Christine,  glancing  about  her  contentedly,  reverted 
to  one  of  her  leading  ideas: 

"Truly,  it  is  very  romantic,  thy  London  I" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   VIRGIN 

CHRISTINE  went  into  the  Oratory  of  St.  Philip  at 
Brompton  on  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  following 
January,  dipped  her  finger  into  one  of  the  Italian 
basins  at  the  entrance,  and  signed  herself  with  the 
holy  water.  She  was  dressed  in  black;  she  had  the 
face  of  a  pretty  martyr;  her  brow  was  crumpled  by 
the  world's  sorrow;  she  looked  and  actually  was  at 
the  moment  intensely  religious.  She  had  months 
earlier  chosen  the  Brompton  Oratory  for  her  devo- 
tions, partly  because  of  the  name  of  Philip,  which 
had  been  murmured  in  accents  of  affection  by  her 
dying  mother,  and  partly  because  it  lay  on  a  direct, 
comprehensible  bus-route  from  Piccadilly.  You  got 
into  the  motor-bus  opposite  the  end  of  the  Burlington 
Arcade,  and  in  about  six  minutes  it  dropped  you  in 
front  of  the  Oratory;  and  you  could  not  possibly 
lose  yourself  in  the  topographical  intricacies  of  the 
unknown  city.  Christine  never  took  a  taxi  except 
when  on  business. 

The  interior  was  gloomy  with  the  winter  fore- 
noon; the  broad  Renaissance  arches  showed  them- 
selves only  faintly  above;  on  every  side  there  were 
little  archipelagoes  of  light  made  by  groups  of  can- 
dles in  front  of  great  pale  images.  The  church  was 

1 08 


THE  VIRGIN  109 

comparatively  empty,  and  most  of  the  people  present 
were  kneeling  in  the  chapels ;  for  Christine  had  pur- 
posely come,  as  she  always  did,  at  the  slack  hour 
between  the  seventh  and  last  of  the  early  morning 
Low  Masses  and  the  High  Mass  at  eleven. 

She  went  up  the  right  aisle  and  stopped  before 
the  Miraculous  Infant  Jesus  of  Prague,  a  charming 
and  nai've  little  figure  about  eighteen  inches  high  in 
a  stiff  embroidered  cloak  and  a  huge  symbol  upon 
his  curly  head.  She  had  put  herself  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Miraculous  Infant  Jesus  of  Prague. 
She  liked  him;  he  was  a  change  from  the  Virgin; 
and  he  stood  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  whole 
interior,  behind  the  black  statue  of  St.  Peter  with 
protruding  toe,  and  within  the  deep  shadow  made 
by  the  organ-loft  overhead.  Also  he  had  a  motto 
in  French:  "Plus  vous  m'honorerez  plus  je  vous 
favoriserai." 

Christine  hesitated,  and  then  left  the  Miraculous 
Infant  Jesus  of  Prague  without  even  a  transient 
genuflexion.  She  was  afraid  to  devote  herself  to 
him  that  morning. 

Of  course  she  had  been  brought  up  strictly  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  faith.  And  in  her  own  esteem  she 
was  still  an  honest  Catholic.  For  years  she  had  not 
confessed  and  therefore  had  not  communicated.  For 
years  she  had  had  a  desire  to  cast  herself  down  at  a 
confessional-box,  but  she  had  not  done  so  because  of 
one  of  the  questions  in  the  "Petit  Paroissien"  which 
she  used:  "Avez-vous  peche,  par  pensee,  parole,  ou 
action,  contre  la  purete  ou  la  modestie?"  And  be- 
cause also  of  the  preliminary  injunction:  "Mainte- 


110  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

nant  essayez  de  vous  rappeler  vos  peches,  et  combien 
de  fois  vous  les  avez  commis."  She  could  not  bring 
herself  to  do  that.  Once  she  had  confessed  a  great 
deal  to  a  priest  at  Sens,  but  he  had  treated  her  too 
lightly;  his  lightness  with  her  had  indeed  been  shame- 
ful. Since  then  she  had  never  confessed.  Further, 
she  knew  herself  to  be  in  a  state  of  mortal  sin  by 
reason  of  her  frequent  wilful  neglect  of  the  holy  of- 
fices ;  and  occasionally,  at  the  most  inconvenient  mo- 
ments, the  conviction  that  if  she  died  she  was  damned 
would  triumph  over  her  complacency.  But  on  the 
whole  she  had  hopes  for  the  future;  though  she 
had  sinned,  her  sin  was  mysteriously  not  like  other 
people's  sin  of  exactly  the  same  kind. 

And  finally  there  was  the  Virgin  Mary,  the  sweet 
and  dependable  goddess.  She  had  been  neglecting 
the  very  clement  Virgin  Mary  in  favour  of  the  Mi- 
raculous Infant  Jesus  of  Prague.  A  whim,  a  thought- 
less caprice,  which  she  had  paid  for!  The  Virgin 
Mary  had  withdrawn  her  defending  shield.  At 
least  that  was  the  interpretation  which  Christine 
was  bound  to  put  upon  the  terrible  incident  of  the 
previous  night  in  the  Promenade.  She  had  quite 
innocently  been  involved  in  a  drunken  row  in  the 
lounge.  Two  military  officers,  one  of  whom,  unno- 
ticed by  Christine,  was  intoxicated,  and  two  women 
— Madame  Larivaudiere  and  Christine!  The  Bel- 
gian had  been  growing  more  and  more  jealous  of 
Christine.  .  .  .  The  row  had  flamed  up  in  the 
tenth  of  a  second  like  an  explosion.  The  two  officers 
— then  the  two  women.  The  bright  silvery  sound  of 
glass  shattered  on  marble!  High  voices,  deep 


THE  VIRGIN  111 

voices!  Half  the  Promenade  had  rushed  vulgarly 
into  the  lounge,  panting  with  a  gross  appetite  to 
witness  a  vulgar  scene.  And  as  the  Belgian  was 
jealous  of  the  French  girl,  so  were  the  English  girls 
horribly  jealous  of  all  the  foreign  girls,  and  scornful 
too.  Nothing  but  the  overwhelming  desire  of  the 
management  to  maintain  the  perfect  respectability  of 
its  Promenade  had  prevented  a  rough-and-tumble 
between  the  officers.  As  for  Madame  Larivaudiere, 
she  had  been  ejected  and  told  never  to  return.  Chris- 
tine had  fled  to  the  cloakroom,  where  she  had  re- 
mained for  half  an  hour,  and  thence  had  vanished 
away,  solitary,  by  the  side  entrance.  It  was  precisely 
such  an  episode  as  Christine's  mother  would  have 
deprecated  in  horror,  and  as  Christine  herself  in- 
tensely loathed.  And  she  could  never  assuage  the 
moral  wound  of  it  by  confiding  the  affair  to  Gilbert. 
She  was  mad  about  Gilbert;  she  thrilled  to  be  his 
slave;  she  had  what  seemed  an  immeasurable  confi- 
dence in  him ;  and  yet  never,  never  could  she  mention 
another  individual  man  to  him,  much  less  tell  him  of 
the  public  shame  that  had  fallen  upon  her  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  her  profession.  Why  had  fate  been  thus 
hard  on  her?  The  answer  was  surely  to  be  found  in 
the  displeasure  of  the  Virgin.  And  so  she  did  not 
dare  to  stay  with  the  Miraculous  Infant  Jesus  of 
Prague,  nor  even  to  murmur  the  prayer  beginning: 
"Adorable  Jesus,  divin  modele  de  la  perfec- 
tion. 

She  glanced  round  the  great  church,  considering 
what  were  to  her  the  major  and  minor  gods  and 
goddesses  on  their  ornate  thrones:  St.  Antony,  St. 


112  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Joseph,  St.  Sebastian,  St.  Philip,  the  Sacred  Heart, 
St.  Cecelia,  St.  Peter,  St.  Wilfrid,  St.  Mary  Magda- 
lene (Ah!  Not  at  that  altar  could  she  be  seen!), 
St.  Patrick,  St.  Veronica,  St.  Francis,  St.  John  Bap- 
tist, St.  Teresa,  Our  Lady,  Our  Lady  of  Good  Coun- 
sel. No !  There  was  only  one  goddess  possible  for 
her — Our  Lady  of  VII  Dolours.  She  crossed  the 
wide  nave  to  the  severe  black  and  white  marble 
chapel  of  the  VII  Dolours.  The  aspect  of  the  shrine 
suited  her.  On  one  side  she  read  the  English  words : 
"Of  your  charity  pray  for  the  soul  of  Flora  Duchess 
of  Norfolk  who  put  up  this  altar  to  the  Mother  of 
Sorrows  that  they  who  mourn  may  be  comforted." 
And  the  very  words  were  romantic  to  her,  and  she 
thought  of  Flora  Duchess  of  Norfolk  as  a  figure 
inexpressibly  more  romantic  than  the  illustrious  fe- 
male figures  of  French  history.  The  Virgin  of  the 
VII  Dolours  was  enigmatically  gazing  at  her,  wait- 
ing no  doubt  to  be  placated.  The  Virgin  was  painted, 
gigantic,  in  oil  on  canvas,  but  on  her  breast  stood 
out  a  heart  made  in  three  dimensions  of  real  silver 
and  pierced  by  the  swords  of  the  seven  dolours,  three 
to  the  left  and  four  to  the  right ;  and  in  front  was  a 
tiny  gold  figure  of  Jesus  crucified  on  a  gold  cross. 

Christine  cast  herself  down  and  prayed  to  the 
painted  image  and  the  hammered  heart.  She  prayed 
to  the  goddess  whom  the  Middle  Ages  had  perfected 
and  who  in  the  minds  of  the  simple  and  the  savage 
has  survived  the  Renaissance  and  still  triumphantly 
flourishes;  the  Queen  of  heaven,  the  Tyrant  of 
heaven,  the  Woman  in  heaven ;  who  was  so  venerated 
that  even  her  sweat  is  exhibited  as  a  relic;  who  was 


THE  VIRGIN  113 

softer  than  Christ  as  Christ  was  softer  than  the 
Father;  who  in  becoming  a  goddess  had  increased 
her  humanity;  who  put  living  roses  for  a  sign  into 
the  mouths  of  fornicators  when  they  died,  if  only 
they  had  been  faithful  to  her;  who  told  the  amorous 
sacristan  to  kiss  her  face  and  not  her  feet;  who  ques- 
tioned lovers  about  their  mistresses :  "Is  she  as  pretty 
as  I?";  who  fell  like  a  pestilence  on  the  nuptial 
chambers  of  young  men  who,  professing  love  for 
her,  had  taken  another  bride;  who  enjoyed  being 
amused;  who  admitted  a  weakness  for  artists,  tum- 
blers, soldiers  and  the  common  herd;  who  had  vis- 
ibly led  both  opponents  on  every  battlefield  for  cen- 
turies; who  impersonated  absent  disreputable  nuns 
and  did  their  work  for  them  until  they  returned, 
repentant,  to  be  forgiven  by  her;  who  acted  always 
on  her  instinct  and  never  on  her  reason;  who  cared 
nothing  for  legal  principles;  who  openly  used  her 
feminine  influence  with  the  Trinity ;  who  filled  heaven 
vith  riff-raff;  and  who  had  never  on  any  pretext 
driven  a  soul  out  of  heaven.  Christine  made  peace 
with  this  jealous  and  divine  creature.  She  felt  un- 
mistakably that  she  was  forgiven  for  her  infidelity 
due  to  the  Infant  in  the  darkness  beyond  the  oppo- 
site aisle.  The  face  of  the  Lady  of  VII  Dolours 
miraculously  smiled  at  her;  the  silver  heart  miracu- 
lously shed  its  tarnish'  and  glittered  beneficent  light- 
nings. Doubtless  she  knew  somewhere  in  her 
mind  that  no  physical  change  had  occurred  in  the 
picture  or  the  heart;  but  her  mind  was  a  complex, 
and  like  nearly  all  minds  could  disbelieve  and  believe 
simultaneously. 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Just  as  High  Mass  was  beginning  she  rose  and 
in  grave  solace  left  the  Oratory;  she  would  not  en- 
danger her  new  peace  with  the  Virgin  Mary  by  any 
devotion  to  other  gods.  She  was  solemn  but  happy. 
The  conductor  who  took  her  penny  in  the  motor- 
bus  never  suspected  that  on  the  pane  before  her, 
where  some  Agency  had  caused  to  be  printed  in 
colour  the  words  "Seek  ye  the  Lord"  she  saw,  in 
addition  to  the  amazing  oddness  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race,  a  dangerous  incitement  to  unfaith.  She  kept 
her  thoughts  passionately  on  the  Virgin;  and  by  the 
time  the  bus  had  reached  Hyde  Park  Corner  she 
was  utterly  sure  that  the  horrible  adventure  of  the 
Promenade  was  purged  of  its  evil  potentialities. 

In  the  house  in  Cork  Street  she  took  out  her  latch- 
key, placidly  opened  the  door,  and  entered,  smiling 
at  the  solitude.  Marthe,  who  also  had  a  soul  in 
need  of  succour,  would,  in  the  ordinary  course,  have 
gone  forth  to  a  smaller  church  and  a  late  mass.  But 
on  this  particular  morning  fat  Marthe  in  deshabille, 
came  running  to  her  from  the  little  kitchen. 

"Oh!  Madame!  .  .  .  There  is  someone!  He  is 
drunk." 

Her  voice  was  outraged.  She  pointed  fearfully 
to  the  bedroom.  Christine,  courageous,  walked 
straight  in.  An  officer  in  khaki  was  lying  on  the 
bed;  his  muddy,  spurred  boots  had  soiled  the  white 
lace  coverlet.  He  was  asleep  and  snoring.  She 
looked  at  him,  and,  recognising  her  acquaintance  of 
the  previous  night,  wondered  what  the  very  clement 
Virgin  could  be  about. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SUNDAY  AFTERNOON 

"WHAT  is  madame  going  to  do?"  whispered 
Marthe,  still  alarmed  and  shocked,  when  they  had 
both  stepped  back  out  of  the  bedroom;  and  she 
added:  "He  has  never  been  here  before." 

Marthe  was  a  woman  of  immense  experience  but 
little  brains,  and  when  phenomena  passed  beyond  her 
experience  she  became  rather  like  a  foolish,  raw  girl. 
She  had  often  dealt  with  drunken  men;  she  had 
often — especially  in  her  younger  days — satisfactorily 
explained  a  situation  to  visitors  who  happened  to 
call  when  her  mistress  for  the  time  being  was  out. 
But  only  on  the  very  rarest  occasions  had  she  known 
a  client  commit  the  awful  solecism  of  calling  before 
lunch ;  and  that  a  newcomer,  even  intoxicated,  should 
commit  this  solecism  staggered  her  and  left  her  trem- 
bling. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?  Nothing!"  answered 
Christine.  "Let  him  sleep." 

Christine,  too,  was  dismayed.  But  Marthe's 
weakness  gave  her  strength,  and  she  would  not  show 
her  fright.  Moreover,  Christine  had  some  force 
of  character,  though  it  did  not  often  show  itself  as 
sudden  firmness.  She  condescended  to  Marthe.  She 
also  condescended  to  the  officer,  because  he  was  un- 

"5 


116  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

conscious,  because  he  had  put  himself  in  a  false  posi- 
tion, because  sooner  or  later  he  would  look  extremely 
silly.  She  regarded  the  officer's  intrusion  as  tire- 
some, but  she  did  not  gravely  resent  it.  After  all, 
he  was  drunk;  and  before  the  row  in  the  Promenade 
he  had  asked  her  for  her  card,  saying  that  he  was 
engaged  that  night  but  would  like  to  know  where 
she  lived.  Of  course  she  had  protested — as  what 
woman  in  her  place  would  not? — against  the  theory 
that  he  was  engaged  that  night,  and  she  had  been  in 
a  fair  way  to  convince  him  that  he  was  not  really 
engaged  that  night — except  morally  to  her,  since  he 
had  accosted  her — when  the  quarrel  had  supervened 
and  it  had  dawned  on  her  that  he  had  been  in  the 
taciturn  and  cautious  stage  of  acute  inebriety. 

He  had,  it  now  seemed,  probably  been  drinking 
through  the  night.  There  were  men,  as  she  knew, 
who  simply  had  to  have  bouts,  whose  only  method 
to  peace  was  to  drown  the  demon  within  them.  She 
would  never  knowingly  touch  a  drunken  man,  or 
even  a  partially  intoxicated  man,  if  she  could  help 
it,  She  was  not  a  bit  like  the  polite  young  lady 
above,  who  seemed  to  specialise  in  noisy  tipplers. 
Her  way  with  the  top-heavy  was  to  leave  them  to 
recover  in  tranquillity.  No  other  way  was  safe. 
Nevertheless,  in  the  present  instance  she  did  venture 
again  into  the  bedroom.  The  plight  of  the  lace  cov- 
erlet troubled  her  and  practically  drove  her  into  the 
bedroom.  She  got  a  little  towel,  gently  lifted  the 
sleeper's  left  foot,  and  tied  the  towel  round  his  boot; 
then  she  did  the  same  to  his  other  foot.  The  man 
did  not  stir;  but  if,  later,  he  should  stir,  neither  his 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  117 

boots  nor  his  spurs  could  do  further  harm  to  the  lace 
coverlet.  His  cane  and  gloves  were  on  the  floor;  she 
picked  them  up.  His  overcoat,  apparently  of  excel- 
lent quality,  was  still  on  his  back;  and  the  cap  had 
not  quite  departed  from  his  head.  Christine  had 
learned  enough  about  English  military  signs  and  sym- 
bols to  enable  her  to  perceive  that  he  belonged  to 
the  artillery. 

"But  how  will  madame  change  her  dress?"  Marthe 
demanded  in  the  sitting  room.  Madame  always 
changed  her  dress  immediately  on  returning  from 
church,  for  that  which  is  suitable  for  mass  may  not 
be  proper  to  other  ends. 

"I  shall  not  change,"  said  Christine. 

"It  is  well,  madame." 

Christine  was  not  deterred  from  changing  by  the 
fact  that  the  bedroom  was  occupied.  She  retained 
her  church  dress  because  she  foresaw  the  great  ad- 
vantage she  would  derive  from  it  in  the  encounter 
which  must  ultimately  occur  with  the  visitor.  She 
would  not  even  take  her  hat  off. 

The  two  women  lunched,  mainly  on  macaroni,  with 
some  cheese  and  an  apple.  Christine  had  coffee. 
Ah!  She  must  always  have  her  coffee.  As  for  a 
cigarette,  she  never  smoked  when  alone,  because  she 
did  not  really  care  for  smoking.  Marthe,  however, 
enjoyed  smoking,  and  Christine  gave  her  a  cigarette, 
which  she  lighted  while  clearing  the  table.  One 
was  mistress,  the  other  servant,  but  the  two  women 
were  constantly  meeting  on  the  plane  of  equality. 
Neither  of  them  could  avoid  it,  or  consistently  tried 
to  avoid  it.  Although  Marthe  did  not  eat  with  Chris- 


118  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

tine,  if  a  meal  was  in  progress  she  generally  came 
into  the  sitting  room  with  her  mouth  more  or  less 
full  of  food.  Their  repasts  were  trifles,  passovers, 
unceremonious  and  irregular  peckings,  begun  and  fin- 
ished in  a  few  moments.  And  if  Marthe  was  always 
untidy  in  her  person,  Christine,  up  till  three  in  the 
afternoon,  was  also  untidy.  They  went  about  the 
flat  in  a  wonderful  state  of  unkempt  and  insecure 
slovenliness.  And  sometimes  Marthe  might  be  loll- 
ing in  the  sitting-room  over  the  illustrations  in  La 
Vie  Parisienne,  which  was  part  of  the  apparatus  of 
the  flat,  while  Christine  was  in  the  tiny  kitchen 
washing  gloves  as  she  alone  could  wash  them. 

The  flat  lapsed  into  at  any  rate  a  superficial  calm. 
Marthe,  seeing  that  fate  had  deprived  her  of  the 
usual  consolations  of  religion,  determined  to  reward 
herself  by  remaining  a  perfect  slattern  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  She  would  not  change  at  all.  She  would 
not  wash  up  either  the  breakfast  things  or  the  lunch 
things.  Leaving  a  small  ring  of  gas  alight  in  the 
gas  stove,  she  sat  down  all  dirty  on  a  hard  chair  in 
front  of  it  and  fell  into  a  luxurious  catalepsy.  In 
the  sitting-room  Christine  sat  upright  on  the  sofa 
and  read  lusciously  a  French  translation  of  "East 
Lynne."  She  was  in  no  hurry  for  the  man  to  waken; 
her  sense  of  time  was  very  imperfect;  she  was  never 
pricked  by  the  thought  that  life  is  short  and  that  many 
urgent  things  demand  to  be  done  before  the  grave 
opens.  Nor  was  she  apprehensive  of  unpleasant 
complications.  The  man  was  in  the  flat,  but  it  was 
her  flat;  her  law  ran  in  the  flat;  and  the  door  was 
fast  against  invasion.  Still,  the  gentle  snore  of  the 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  119 

man,  rising  and  falling,  dominated  the  flat,  and  the 
fact  of  his  presence  preoccupied  the  one  woman  in  the 
kitchen  and  the  other  in  the  sitting  room.  .  .  . 

Christine  noticed  that  the  thickness  of  the  pages 
read  had  imperceptibly  increased  to  three-quarters 
of  an  inch,  while  the  thickness  of  the  unread  pages 
had  diminished  to  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  And  she 
also  noticed,  on  the  open  page,  another  phenomenon. 
It  was  the  failing  of  the  day — the  faintest  shadow 
on  the  page.  With  incredible  transience  another  of 
those  brief  interruptions  of  darkness  which  in  Lon- 
don in  winter  are  called  days  was  ending.  She  rose 
and  went  to  the  discreetly-curtained  window,  and, 
conscious  of  the  extreme  propriety  of  her  appear- 
ance, boldly  pulled  aside  the  curtain  and  looked 
across,  through  naked  glass,  at  the  hotel  nearly  op- 
posite. There  was  not  a  sound,  not  a  movement,  in 
Cork  Street.  Cork  Street,  the  flat,  the  hotel,  the 
city,  the  universe,  lay  entranced  and  stupefied  beneath 
the  grey  vapours  of  the  Sabbath.  The  sensation  to 
Christine  was  melancholy,  but  it  was  exquisitely  mel- 
ancholy. 

The  solid  hotel  dissolved,  and  in  its  place  Chris- 
tine saw  the  interesting,  pathetic  phantom  of  her 
own  existence.  A  stern,  serious  existence,  full  of 
disappointments,  and  not  free  from  dangerous  epi- 
sodes, an  existence  which  detailed  much  solitude  and 
loss  of  liberty;  but  the  verdict  upon  it  was  that  in 
the  main  it  might  easily  have  been  more  unsatis- 
factory than  it  was.  With  her  indolence  and  her  un- 
appeasable temperament  what  other  vocation  indeed, 
save  that  of  marriage,  could  she  have  taken  up  ?  And 


120  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

her  temperament  would  have  rendered  any  marriage 
an  impossible  prison  for  her.  She  was  a  modest 
success — her  mother  had  always  counselled  her 
against  ambition — but  she  was  a  success.  Her  magic 
power  was  at  its  height.  She  continued  to  save 
money  and  had  become  a  fairly  regular  frequenter 
of  the  West  End  branch  of  the  Credit  Lyonnais. 
(Incidentally  she  had  come  to  an  arrangement  with 
her  Paris  landlord.) 

But,  more  important  than  money,  she  was  saving 
her  health,  and  especially  her  complexion — the  source 
of  money.  Her  complexion  could  still  survive  the 
minutest  examination.  She  achieved  this  supreme 
end  by  plenty  of  sleep  and  by  keeping  to  the  mini- 
mum of  alcohol.  Of  course  she  had  to  drink  pro- 
fessionally; clients  insisted;  some  of  them  were  ex- 
hilarated by  the  spectacle  of  a  girl  tipsy;  but  she 
was  very  ingenious  in  avoiding  alcohol.  When  in- 
vited to  supper  she  would  respond  with  an  air  of 
restrained  eagerness:  "Oh,  yes,  with  pleasure!" 
And  then  carelessly  add:  "Unless  you  would  prefer 
to  come  quietly  home  with  me.  My  maid  is  an 
excellent  cook  and  one  is  very  comfortable  chez- 
moi."  And  often  the  prospect  thus  sketched  would 
piquantly  allure  a  client.  Nevertheless  at  intervals 
she  could  savour  a  fashionable  restaurant  as  well  as 
any  harum-scarum  minx  there.  Her  secret  fear  was 
still  obesity.  She  was  capable  of  imagining  herself 
as  fat  as  Marthe — and  ruined;  for,  though  a  few 
peculiar  amateurs  appreciated  solidity,  the  great  ma- 
jority of  men  did  not.  However,  she  was  not  get- 
ting stouter. 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  121 

She  had  a  secret  sincere  respect  for  certain  of  her 
own  qualities ;  and  if  women  of  the  world  contemned 
certain  other  qualities  in  her,  well,  she  despised 
women  of  the  world — selfish  idlers  who  did  nothing, 
who  contributed  nothing,  to  the  sum  of  life,  whereas 
she  was  a  useful  and  indispensable  member  of  so- 
ciety, despite  her  admitted  indolence.  In  this  sum- 
mary way  she  comforted  herself  in  her  loss  of  caste. 

Without  Gilbert,  of  course,  her  existence  would 
have  been  fatally  dull,  and  she  might  have  been 
driven  to  terrible  remedies  against  ennui  and  empti- 
ness. The  depth  and  violence  of  her  feeling  for 
Gilbert  were  indescribable — at  any  rate  by  her.  She 
turned  again  from  the  darkening  window  to  the  sofa 
and  sat  down  and  tried  to  recall  the  figures  of  the 
dozens  of  men  who  had  sat  there,  and  she  could  re- 
call at  most  six  or  eight,  and  Gilbert  alone  was  real. 
What  a  paragon!  .  .  .  Her  scorn  for  girls  who 
succumbed  to  souteneurs  was  measureless;  as  a  fact 
she  had  met  few  who  did.  .  .  .  She  would  have 
liked  to  beautify  her  flat  for  Gilbert,  but  in  the  first 
place  she  did  not  wish  to  spend  money  on  it,  in  the 
second  place  she  was  too  indolent  to  buckle  to  the 
enterprise,  and  in  the  third  place  if  she  beautified  it 
she  would  be  doing  so  not  for  Gilbert,  but  for  the 
unending  monotonous  procession  of  her  clients.  Her 
flat  was  a  public  resort,  and  so  she  would  do  nothing 
to  it.  Nothing.  Besides,  she  really  did  not  care  a 
fig  about  the  look  of  furniture ;  the  feel  of  furniture 
alone  interested  her;  she  wanted  softness  and  warmth 
and  no  more. 

She  moved  across  to  the  piano,  remembering  that 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

she  had  not  practised  that  day,  and  that  she  had 
promised  Gilbert  to  practise  every  day.  He  was 
teaching  her.  At  the  beginning  she  had  dreamt  of 
acquiring  brilliance  such  as  his  on  the  piano,  but  she 
had  soon  seen  the  futility  of  the  dream  and  had  mod- 
erated her  hopes  accordingly.  Even  with  terrific 
efforts  she  could  not  make  her  hands  do  the  things 
that  his  did  quite  easily  at  the  first  attempt.  She  had, 
for  example,  abandoned  the  Rosenkavalier  waltz, 
having  never  succeeded  in  struggling  through  more 
than  about  ten  bars  of  it,  and  those  the  simplest. 
But  her  French  dances  she  had  notably  improved  in. 
She  knew  some  of  them  by  heart  and  could  patter 
them  off  with  a  very  tasteful  vivacity.  Instead  of 
practising,  she  now  played  gently  through  a  slow 
waltz  from  memory.  If  the  snoring  man  was 
wakened,  so  much  the  worse — or  so  much  the  better  1 
She  went  on  playing,  and  evening  continued  to  fall, 
until  she  could  scarcely  see  the  notes.  Then  she 
heard  movements  in  the  bedroom,  a  sigh,  a  bump, 
some  English  words  that  she  did  not  comprehend. 
She  still,  by  force  of  resolution,  went  on  playing, 
to  protect  herself,  to  give  herself  countenance.  At 
length  she  saw  a  dim  male  figure  against  the  pale 
oblong  of  the  doorway  between  the  two  rooms,  and 
behind  the  figure  a  point  of  glowing  red  in  the  stove. 

"I  say — what  time  is  it?" 

She  recognised  the  heavy,  resonant,  vibrating 
voice.  She  had  stopped  playing  because  she  was 
making  so  many  mistakes. 

"Late — late !"  she  murmured  timidly. 

The  next  moment  the  figure  was  kneeling  at  her 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  123 

feet,  and  her  left  hand  had  been  seized  in  a  hot  hand 
and  kissed — respectfully. 

"Forgive  me,  you  beautiful  creature  I"  begged  the 
deep,  imploring  voice.  "I  know  I  don't  deserve  it. 
But  forgive  me !  I  worship  women,  honestly." 

Assuredly  she  had  not  expected  this  development. 
She  thought:  "Is  he  not  sober  yet?"  But  the  query 
had  no  conviction  in  it.  She  wanted  to  believe  that 
he  was  sober.  At  any  rate  he  had  removed  the  ab- 
surd towels  from  his  boots. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HE    MYSTIC 

"SAY  you  forgive  me!"  the  officer  insisted. 

"But  there  is  nothing " 

"Say  you  forgive  me !" 

She  had  counted  on  a  scene  of  triumph  with  him 
when  he  woke  up,  anticipating  that  he  was  bound  to 
cut  a  ridiculous  appearance.  He  knelt  dimly  there 
without  a  sign  of  self-consciousness  or  false  shame. 
She  forgave  him. 

"Great  baby!" 

Her  hand  was  kissed  again  and  loosed.  She  de- 
tected a  faint,  sad  smile  on  his  face. 

"Ah!" 

He  rose,  towering  above  her. 

"I  know  I'm  a  drunken  sot,"  he  said.  "It  was 
only  because  I  knew  I  was  drunk  that  I  didn't  want 
to  come  with  you  last  night.  And  I  called  this  morn- 
ing to  apologise.  I  did  really.  I'd  no  other  thought 
in  my  poor  old  head.  I  wanted  you  to  understand 
why  I  tried  to  hit  that  chap.  The  other  woman  had 
spoken  to  me  earlier,  and  I  suppose  she  was  jealous, 
seeing  me  with  you.  She  said  something  to  him  about 
you,  and  he  laughed,  and  I  had  to  hit  him  for  laugh- 
ing. I  couldn't  hit  her.  If  I'd  caught  him  an  upper 
cut  with  my  left  he'd  have  gone  down,  and  he 

124 


THE  MYSTIC  125 

wouldn't  have  got  up  by  himself — /  warrant 
you " 

"What  did  she  say?"  Christine  interrupted,  not 
comprehending  the  technical  idiom  and  not  interested 
in  it. 

"I  dunno;  but  he  laughed — anyhow  he  smiled." 

Christine  turned  on  the  light,  and  then  went 
quickly  to  the  window  to  draw  the  curtains. 

"Take  off  your  overcoat,"  she  commanded  him 
kindly. 

He  obeyed,  blinking.  She  sat  down  on  the  sofa 
and,  raising  her  arms,  drew  the  pins  from  her  hat 
and  put  it  on  the  table.  She  motioned  him  to  sit 
down  too,  and  left  him  a  narrow  space  between  her- 
self and  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  so  that  they  were  very 
close  together.  Then,  with  puckered  brow,  she  ex- 
amined him. 

"I'd  better  tell  you,"  he  said.  "It  does  me  good 
to  confess  to  you,  you  beautiful  thing.  I  had  a  bottle 
of  whisky  upstairs  in  my  room  at  the  Grosvenor. 
Night  before  last,  when  I  arrived  there,  I  couldn't 
get  to  sleep  in  the  bed.  Hadn't  been  used  to  a  bed 
for  so  long,  you  know.  I  had  to  turn  out  and  roll 
myself  up  in  a  blanket  on  the  floor.  And  last  night 
I  spent  drinking  by  myself.  Yes,  by  myself.  Some- 
how, I  don't  mind  telling  you.  This  morning  I  must 
have  been  worse  than  I  thought  I  was " 

He  stopped  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"There  are  tears  in  your  eyes,  little  thing.  Let 
me  kiss  your  eyes.  .  .  .  No !  I'll  respect  you.  I 
worship  you.  You're  the  nicest  little  woman  I  ever 
saw,  and  I'm  a  brute.  But  let  me  kiss  your  eyes." 


126  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

She  held  her  face  seriously,  even  frowning  some- 
what. And  he  kissed  her  eyes  gently,  one  after 
the  other,  and  she  smelt  his  contaminated  breath. 

He  was  a  spare  man,  with  a  rather  thin,  ingenu- 
ous, mysterious,  romantic,  appealing  face.  It  was 
true  that  her  eyes  had  moistened.  She  was  touched 
by  his  look  and  his  tone  as  he  told  her  that  he  had 
been  obliged  to  lie  on  the  floor  of  his  bedroom  in 
order  to  sleep.  There  seemed  to  be  an  infinite  pathos 
in  that  trifle.  He  was  one  of  the  fighters.  He  had 
fought.  He  was  come  from  the  horrors  of  the  bat- 
tle. A  man  of  power.  He  had  killed.  And  he  was 
probably  ten  or  a  dozen  years  her  senior.  Neverthe- 
less, she  felt  herself  to  be  older  than  he  was,  wiser, 
more  experienced.  She  almost  wanted  to  nurse  him. 
And  for  her  he  was,  too,  the  protected  of  the  very 
clement  Virgin;  Inquiries  from  Marthe  showed  that 
he  must  have  entered  the  flat  at  the  moment  when 
she  was  kneeling  at  the  altar  and  when  the  Lady  of 
VII.  Dolours  had  miraculously  granted  to  her  par- 
don and  peace.  He  was  part  of  the  miracle.  She 
had  a  duty  to  him,  and  her  duty  was  to  brighten  his 
destiny,  to  give  him  joy,  not  to  let  him  go  without  a 
charming  memory  of  her  soft  womanly  acquiescences. 
At  the  same  time  her  temperament  was  aroused  by 
his  personality;  and  she  did  not  forget  she  had  a 
living  to  earn;  but  still  her  chief  concern  was  his 
satisfaction,  not  her  own,  and  her  overmastering  sen- 
timent one  of  dutiful,  nay  religious,  surrender. 
French  gratitude  to  the  English  fighter,  and  a  mystic, 
fearful  allegiance  to  the  very  clement  Virgin — these 
things  inspired  her. 


THE  MYSTIC  127 

"Ah!"  he  sighed.  "My  throat's  like  leather." 
And  seeing  that  she  did  not  follow,  he  added: 
"Thirsty."  He  stretched  his  arms.  She  went  to  the 
sideboard  and  half  filled  a  tumbler  with  soda  water 
from  the  siphon. 

"Drink!"  she  said,  as  if  to  a  child. 

"Just  a  dash!  The  tiniest  dash!"  he  pleaded  in 
his  rich  voice,  with  a  glance  at  the  whisky.  "You 
don't  know  how  it'll  pull  me  together.  You  don't 
know  how  I  need  it." 

But  she  did  know,  and  she  humoured  him,  shaking 
her  head  disapprovingly. 

He  drank  and  smacked  his  lips. 

"Ah!"  he  breathed  voluptuously,  and  then  said  in 
changed,  playful  accents:  "Your  French  accent  is 
exquisite.  It  makes  English  sound  quite  beautiful. 
And  you're  the  daintiest  little  thing." 

"Daintiest?  What  is  that?  I  have  much  to  learn 
in  English.  But  it  is  something  nice — daintiest;  it  is 
a  compliment."  She  somehow  understood  then  that, 
despite  appearances,  he  was  not  really  a  devotee  of 
her  sex,  that  he  was  really  a  solitary,  that  he  would 
never  die  of  love,  and  that  her  role  was  a  minor  role 
in  his  existence.  And  she  accepted  the  fact  with  hu- 
mility, with  enthusiasm,  with  ardour,  quite  ready  to 
please  and  to  be  forgotten.  In  playing  the  slave  to 
him,  she  had  the  fierce  French  illusion  of  killing 
Germans. 

Suddenly  she  noticed  that  he  was  wearing  two 
wrist  watches,  one  close  to  the  other,  on  his  left  arm, 
and  she  remarked  on  the  strange  fact. 

The  officer's  face  changed. 


128  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"Have  you  got  a  wrist  watch?"  he  demanded. 

"No."  ' 

Silently  he  unfastened  one  of  the  watches  and 
then  said: 

"Hold  out  your  beautiful  arm." 

She  did  so.  He  fastened  the  watch  on  her  arm. 
She  was  surprised  to  see  that  it  was  a  lady's  watch. 
The  black  strap  was  deeply  scratched.  She  privately 
reconstructed  the  history  of  the  watch,  and  decided 
that  it  must  be  a  gift  returned  after  a  quarrel — and 
perhaps  the  scratches  on  the  strap  had  something  to 
do  with  the  quarrel. 

"I  beg  you  to  accept  it,"  he  said.  "I  particularly 
wish  you  to  accept  it." 

"It's  really  a  lovely  watch,"  she  exclaimed.  "How 
kind  you  are!"  She  rewarded  him  with  a  warm 
kiss.  "I  have  always  wanted  a  wrist  watch.  And 
now  they  are  so  chic.  In  fact,  one  must  have  one." 
Moving  her  arm  about,  she  admired  the  watch  at 
different  angles. 

"It  isn't  going.  And  what's  more,  it  won't  go," 
he  said. 

"Ah  I"  she  politely  murmured. 

"No!  But  do  you  know  why  I  give  you  that 
watch?" 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  is  a  mascot." 

"True?" 

"Absolutely  a  mascot.  It  belonged  to  a  friend  of 
mine  who  is  dead." 

"Ah!    A  lady " 

"No!     Not  a  lady.     A  man.     He  gave  it  me  a 


THE  MYSTIC  129 

few  minutes  before  he  died — and  he  was  wearing  it 
— and  he  told  me  to  take  it  off  his  arm  as  soon  as  he 
was  dead.  I  did  so." 

Christine  was  somewhat  alarmed. 

"But  if  he  was  wearing  it  when  he  died,  how  can 
it  be  a  mascot?" 

"That  was  what  made  it  a  mascot.  Believe  me, 
I  know  about  these  things.  I  wouldn't  deceive  you, 
and  I  wouldn't  tell  you  it  was  a  mascot  unless  I  was 
quite  certain."  He  spoke  with  a  quiet,  initiated  au- 
thority that  reassured  her  entirely  and  gave  her  the 
most  perfect  confidence. 

"And  why  was  your  friend  wearing  a  lady's 
watch?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 

"You  do  not  know?" 

"I  do  not  know.  But  I  know  that  watch  is  a 
mascot." 

"Was  it  at  the  front — all  this?" 

The  man  nodded. 

"He  was  wounded,  killed,  your  friend?" 

"No,  no,  not  wounded!  He  was  in  my  Battery. 
We  were  galloping  some  guns  to  a  new  position. 
He  came  off  his  horse — the  horse  was  shot  under 
him — he  himself  fell  in  front  of  a  gun.  Of  course, 
the  drivers  dared  not  stop,  and  there  was  no  room  to 
swerve.  Hence  they  had  to  drive  right  over  him. 
.  .  .  Later,  I  came  back  to  him.  They  had  got  him 
as  far  as  the  advanced  dressing-station.  He  died  in 
less  than  an  hour.  .  .  ." 

Solemnity  fell  between  Christine  and  her  client. 

She  said  softly: 


130  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"But  if  it  is  a  mascot — do  you  not  need  it,  you, 
at  the  front?  It  is  wrong  for  me  to  take  it." 

"I  have  my  own  mascot.  Nothing  can  touch  me 
— except  my  great  enemy,  and  he  is  not  German." 
With  an  austere  gesture  he  indicated  the  glass.  His 
deep  voice  was  sad,  but  very  firm.  Christine  felt 
that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  an  adept  of  mysticism. 
The  Virgin  had  sent  this  man  to  her;  and  the  man 
had  given  her  the  watch.  Clearly  the  heavenly 
power  had  her  in  its  holy  charge. 

"Ah,  yes  I"  said  the  man  in  a  new  tone,  as  if  realis- 
ing the  solemnity  and  its  inappropriateness,  and  try- 
ing to  dissipate  it.  "Ah,  yes !  Once  we  had  the  day 
of  our  lives  together,  he  and  I.  We  got  a  day  off  to 
go  and  see  a  new  trench  mortar,  and  we  did  have 
a  time." 

"Trench  mortar — what  is  that?" 

He  explained. 

"But  tell  me  how  it  works,"  she  insisted,  not  be- 
cause she  had  the  slightest  genuine  interest  in  the 
technical  details  of  war — for  she  had  not — but  be- 
cause she  desired  to  help  him  to  change  the  mood  of 
the  scene. 

"Well,  it's  not  so  easy,  you  know.  It  was  a  four 
and  a  half  pound  shell,  filled  with  guncotton  slabs 
and  shrapnel  bullets  packed  in  sawdust.  The  charge 
was  black  powder  in  a  paper  bag,  and  you  stuck  it 
at  the  bottom  end  of  the  pipe  and  put  a  bit  of  fuse 
into  the  touch-hole — but,  of  course,  you  must  take 
care  it  penetrates  the  charge.  The  shell-fuse  has  a 
pinner  with  a  detonator  with  the  right  length  of  fuse 
shoved  into  it;  you  wrap  some  clay  round  the  end 


THE  MYSTIC  131 

of  the  fuse  to  stop  the  flash  of  the  charge  from 
detonating  the  shell.  Well,  then  you  load  the 
shell " 

She  comprehended  simply  nothing,  and  the  man, 
professionally  absorbed,  seemed  to  have  no  percep- 
tion that  she  was  comprehending  nothing.  She 
scarcely  even  listened.  Her  face  was  set  in  a  courte- 
ous, formal  smile ;  but  all  the  time  she  was  thinking 
that  the  man,  in  spite  of  his  qualities,  must  be  lacking 
in  character  to  give  a  watch  away  to  a  woman  to 
whom  he  had  not  been  talking  for  ten  minutes.  His 
lack  of  character  was  shown  also  in  his  unshamed 
confession  concerning  his  real  enemy.  Some  men 
would  bare  their  souls  to  a  cocotte  in  a  fashion  that 
was  flattering  neither  to  themselves  nor  to  the  co~ 
cotte,  and  Christine  never  really  respected  such  men, 
She  did  not  really  respect  this  man,  but  respectedt 
and  stood  in  awe  of,  his  mysticism;  and,  further,  her 
instinct  to  satisfy  him,  to  make  a  spoiled  boy  of  him,, 
was  not  in  the  least  weakened.  Then,  just  as  the 
man  was  in  the  middle  of  his  description  of  the  func- 
tioning of  the  trench  mortar,  the  telephone-bell  rang, 
and  Christine  excused  herself. 

The  telephone  was  in  the  bedroom,  not  by  the 
bedside — for  such  a  situation  had  its  inconveniences 
— but  in  the  farthest  corner,  between  the  window 
and  the  washstand.  As  she  went  to  the  telephone 
she  was  preoccupied  by  one  of  the  major  worries 
of  her  vocation,  the  worry  of  keeping  clients  out 
of  each  other's  sight.  She  wondered  who  could 
be  telephoning  to  her  on  Sunday  evening.  Not  Gil- 
bert, for  Gilbert  never  telephoned  on  Sunday  except 


132  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

in  the  morning.  She  insisted,  of  course,  on  his  tele- 
phoning to  her  daily,  or  almost  daily.  She  did  this 
to  several  of  her  more  reliable  friends,  for  there  was 
no  surer  way  of  convincing  them  of  the  genuineness 
of  her  regard  for  them  than  to  vituperate  them  when 
they  failed  to  keep  her  informed  of  their  health, 
their  spirits,  and  their  doings.  In  the  case  of  Gil- 
bert, however,  her  insistence  had  entirely  ceased  to 
be  a  professional  device;  she  adored  him  violently. 

The  telephoner  was  Gilbert.  He  made  an  amaz- 
ing suggestion;  he  asked  her  to  come  across  to  his 
flat,  where  she  had  never  been  and  where  he  had 
never  asked  her  to  go.  It  had  been  tacitly  and  quite 
amiably  understood  between  them  that  he  was  not 
«ne  who  invited  young  ladies  to  his  own  apartments. 

Christine  cautiously  answered  that  she  was  not 
sure  whether  she  could  come. 

"Are  you  alone?"  he  asked  pleasantly. 

"Yes,  quite." 

"Well,  I  will  come  and  fetch  you." 

She  decided  exactly  what  she  would  do. 

"No,  no.  I  will  come.  I  will  come  now.  I  shall 
be  enchanted."  Purposely  she  spoke  without  con- 
viction, maintaining  a  mysterious  reserve. 

She  returned  to  the  sitting  room  and  to  the  other 
man.  Fortunately  the  conversation  on  the  telephone 
had  been  in  French. 

"See!"  she  said,  speaking  and  feeling  as  though 
they  were  intimates.  "I  have  a  lady  friend  who  is 
ill.  I  am  called  to  see  her.  I  shall  not  be  long. 
I  swear  to  you  I  shall  not  be  long.  Wait.  Will  you 
wait?" 


THE  MYSTIC  133 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  gazing  at  her. 

"Put  yourself  at  your  ease." 

She  was  relieved  to  find  that  she  could  so  easily 
reconcile  her  desire  to  please  Gilbert  with  her  pleas- 
urable desire  towards  the  protege  of  the  very  clement 
Virgin. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  VISIT 

IN  the  doorway  of  his  flat  Christine  kissed  G.  J. 
vehemently,  but  with  a  certain  preoccupation;  she 
was  looking  about  her,  very  curious.  The  way  in 
which  she  raised  her  veil  and  raised  her  face,  mys- 
teriously glanced  at  him,  puckered  her  kind  brow — 
these  things  thrilled  him. 

She  said: 

"You  are  quite  alone,  of  course." 

She  said  it  nicely,  even  benevolently;  neverthe- 
less he  seemed  to  hear  her  saying:  "You  are  quite 
alone,  or,  of  course,  you  wouldn't  have  let  me  come." 

"I  suppose  it's  through  here,"  she  murmured;  and 
without  waiting  for  an  invitation  she  passed  direct 
into  the  lighted  drawing-room  and  stood  there,  ob- 
servant. 

He  followed  her.  They  were  both  nervous  in  the 
midst  of  the  interior  which  he  was  showing  her  for 
the  first  time,  and  which  she  was  silently  estimating. 
For  him  she  made  an  exquisite  figure  in  the  drawing- 
room.  She  was  so  correct  in  her  church-dress,  so 
modest,  prim  and  demure.  And  her  appearance 
clashed  excitingly  with  his  absolute  knowledge  of  her 
secret  temperament.  He  had  often  hesitated  in  his 
judgment  of  her.  Was  she  good  enough  or  was 

134 


THE  VISIT  135 

she  not?  But  now  he  thought  more  highly  of  her 
than  ever.  She  was  ideal,  divine,  the  realisation  of 
a  dream.  And  he  felt  extraordinarily  pleased  with 
himself  because,  after  much  cautious  indecision,  he 
had  invited  her  to  visit  him.  By  heaven,  she  was 
young  physically,  and  yet  she  knew  everything!  Her 
miraculous  youthfulness  rejuvenated  him. 

As  a  fact  he  was  essentially  younger  than  he  had 
been  for  years.  Not  only  she,  but  his  war  work, 
had  re-vitalised  him.  He  had  developed  into  a 
considerable  personage  on  the  Lechford  Committee; 
he  was  chairman  of  a  sub-committee;  he  bore  re- 
sponsibilities and  had  worries.  And  for  a  climax 
the  committee  had  sent  him  out  to  France  to  report 
on  the  accountancy  of  the  hospitals ;  he  had  received 
a  special  passport;  he  had  had  glimpses  of  the  im- 
mense and  growing  military  organisation  behind  the 
Front;  he  had  chatted  in  his  fluent  and  idiomatic 
French  with  authorities  military  and  civil;  he  had 
been  ceremoniously  complimented  on  behalf  of  his 
committee  and  country  by  high  officials  of  the  Serv- 
ice de  Sante.  A  wondrous  experience,  from  which 
he  had  returned  to  England  with  a  greatly  increased 
self-respect  and  a  sharper  apprehension  of  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  war. 

Life  in  London  was  proceeding  much  as  usual. 
If  on  the  one  hand  the  Treasury  had  startlingly  put 
an  embargo  upon  capital  issues,  on  the  other  hand 
the  King  had  resumed  his  patronage  of  the  theatre, 
and  the  town  talked  of  a  new  Lady  Teazle,  and  a 
British  dye-industry  had  been  inaugurated.  But  be- 
hind the  thin  gauze  of  social  phenomena  G.  J.  now 


136  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

more  and  more  realistically  perceived  and  conceived 
the  dark  shape  of  the  war  as  a  vast  moving  entity. 
He  kept  concurrently  in  his  mind,  each  in  its  place, 
the  most  diverse  factors  and  events :  not  merely  the 
Flemish  and  the  French  battles,  but  the  hoped-for 
intervention  of  Roumania,  the  defeat  of  the  Austri- 
ans  by  Servia,  the  menace  of  a  new  Austrian  attack 
on  Servia,  the  rise  in  prices,  the  Russian  move  north 
of  the  Vistula,  the  air  raid  on  Yarmouth,  the  divul- 
gence  of  the  German  axioms  about  frightfulness,  the 
rumour  of  a  definite  German  submarine  policy,  the 
terrible  storm  that  had  disorganised  the  entire  Eng- 
lish railway-system,  and  the  dim  distant  Italian  earth- 
quake whose  death  roll  of  thousands  had  produced 
no  emotion  whatever  on  a  globe  monopolised  by  one 
sole  interest. 

And  to-night  he  had  had  private  early  telephonic 
information  of  a  naval  victory  in  the  North  Sea  in 
which  big  German  cruisers  had  been  chased  to  their 
ignominious  lairs  and  one  sunk.  Christine  could  not 
possibly  know  of  this  grand  affair,  for  the  Sunday 
night  extras  were  not  yet  on  the  street;  he  had  it 
ready  for  her,  eagerly  waiting  to  pour  it  into  her 
delicious  lap  along  with  the  inexhaustible  treasures 
of  his  heart.  At  that  moment  he  envisaged  the  vic- 
tory as  a  shining  jewel  specially  created  in  order  to 
give  her  a  throb  of  joy. 

"It  seems  they  picked  up  a  lot  of  survivors  from 
the  Bliicher"  he  finished  his  narration,  rather 
proudly. 

She  retorted,  quietly  but  terribly  scornful: 

"Zutl     You  English  are  so  naive.     Why  save 


THE  VISIT  137 

them?  Why  not  let  them  drown?  Do  they  not 
deserve  to  drown?  Look  what  they  have  done, 
those  Boches !  And  you  save  them !  Why  did  the 
German  ships  run  away?  They  had  set  a  trap — • 
that  sees  itself — in  addition  to  being  cowards.  You 
save  them,  and  you  think  you  have  made  a  fine  ges- 
ture; but  you  are  nothing  but  simpletons."  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  in  inarticulate  disdain. 

Christine's  attitude  towards  the  war  was  uncom- 
plicated by  any  subtleties.  Disregarding  all  but  the 
utmost  spectacular  military  events,  she  devoted  her 
whole  soul  to  hatred  of  the  Germans — and  all  the 
Germans.  She  believed  them  to  be  damnably  clev- 
erer than  any  other  people  on  earth,  and  especially 
than  the  English.  She  believed  them  to  be  capable 
of  all  villainies  whatsoever.  She  believed  every 
charge  brought  against  them,  never  troubling  about 
evidence.  She  would  have  imprisoned  on  bread  and 
water  all  Germans  and  all  persons  with  German 
names  in  England.  She  was  really  shocked  by  the 
transparent  idiocy  of  Britons  who  opposed  the  re- 
tirement of  Prince  Louis  of  Battenberg  from  the 
Navy.  For  weeks  she  had  remained  happily  in  the 
delusion  that  Prince  Louis  had  been  shot  in  the 
Tower,  and  when  the  awakening  came  she  had  in- 
stantly decided  that  the  sinister  influence  of  Lord 
Haldane  and  naught  else  must  have  saved  Prince 
Louis  from  a  just  retribution.  She  had  a  vision  of 
England  as  overrun  with  innumerable  German  spies 
who  moved  freely  at  inexpressible  speed  about  the 
country  in  high-powered  grey  automobiles  with  daz* 
zling  headlights,  while  the  marvellously  stupid  and 


138  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

blind  British  police  touched  their  hats  to  them.  G.  J. 
smiled  at  her  in  silence,  aware  by  experience  of  the 
futility  of  argument.  He  knew  quite  a  lot  of  women 
who  had  almost  precisely  Christine's  attitude  to- 
wards the  war,  and  quite  a  lot  of  men  too.  But  he 
could  have  wished  the  charming  creature  to  be  as 
desirable  for  her  intelligence  as  for  her  physical  and 
her  strange  spiritual  charm:  he  could  have  wished 
her  not  to  be  providing  yet  another  specimen  of  the 
phenomena  of  woman  repeating  herself  so  monot- 
onously in  the  various  worlds  of  London.  The  sim- 
pleton of  fifty  made  in  his  soul  an  effort  to  be  supe- 
rior, and  failed.  "What  is  it  that  binds  me  to  her?" 
he  reflected,  imagining  himself  to  be  on  the  edge  of  a 
divine  mystery,  and  never  expecting  that  he  and 
Christine  were  the  huge  contrivances  of  certain 
active  spermatozoa  for  producing  other  active  sper- 
matozoa. 

Christine  did  not  wonder  what  bound  her  to  G.  J. 
She  knew,  though  she  had  never  heard  such  a  word 
as  spermatozoa.  She  had  a  violent  passion  for  him; 
it  would,  she  feared,  be  eternal,  whereas  his  pas- 
sion for  her  could  not  last  more  than  a  few  years. 
She  knew  what  the  passions  of  men  were — so  she 
said  to  herself  superiorly.  Her  passion  for  him 
was  in  her  smile  as  she  smiled  back  at  his  silent 
smile;  but  in  her  smile  there  was  also  a  convinced 
apostleship — ^for  she  alone  was  the  repository  of  the 
truth  concerning  Germans,  which  truth  she  preached 
to  an  unheeding  world.  And  there  was  something 
else  in  her  baffling  smile,  namely,  a  quiet,  good- 
natured,  resigned  resentment  against  the  richness  of 


THE  VISIT  139 

his  home.  He  had  treated  her  always  with  generos- 
ity, and  at  any  rate  with  rather  more  than  fairness; 
he  had  not  attempted  to  conceal  that  he  was  a  man 
of  means;  she  had  nothing  to  reproach  him  with 
financially.  And  yet  she  did  reproach  him — for  hav- 
ing been  too  modest.  She  had  a  pretty  sure  instinct 
for  the  price  of  things,  and  she  knew  that  this  Albany 
interior  must  have  been  very  costly;  further,  it  dis- 
played what  she  deemed  to  be  the  taste  of  an  exclu- 
sive aristocrat.  She  saw  that  she  had  been  under- 
valuing her  Gilbert.  The  proprietor  of  this  flat 
would  be  entitled  to  seek  relations  of  higher  stand- 
ing than  herself  in  the  ranks  of  cocotterie;  he  would 
he  justified  in  spending  far  more  money  on  a  girl 
than  he  had  spent  on  her.  He  was  indeed  something 
of  a  fraud  with  his  exaggerated  English  horror  of 
parade.  And  he  lived  by  himself,  save  for  servants; 
he  was  utterly  free ;  and  yet  for  two  months  he  had 
kept  her  out  of  these  splendours,  prevented  her  from 
basking  in  the  glow  of  these  chandeliers  and  loung- 
ing on  these  extraordinary  sofas  and  beholding  her- 
self in  these  terrific  mirrors.  Even  now  he  was 
ashamed  to  let  his  servants  see  her.  Was  it  alto- 
gether nice  of  him?  Her  verdict  on  him  had  not 
the  slightest  importance — even  for  herself.  In  kiss- 
ing other  men  she  generally  kissed  him — to  cheat 
her  appetite.  She  was  at  his  mercy,  whatever  he 
was.  He  was  useful  to  her  and  kind  to  her ;  he  might 
be  the  fount  of  very  important  future  advantages; 
but  he  was  more  than  that,  he  was  indispensable  to 
her. 

She  walked  exploringly  into  the  little  glittering 


140  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

bedroom.  Beneath  the  fantastic  dome  of  the  bed 
the  sheets  were  turned  down  and  a  suit  of  pyjamas 
laid  out.  On  a  Chinese  tray  on  a  lacquered  table  by 
the  bed  was  a  spirit-lamp  and  kettle,  and  a  box  of 
matches  in  an  embroidered  case  with  one  match  stick- 
ing out  ready  to  be  seized  and  struck.  She  gazed, 
and  left  the  bedroom,  saying  nothing,  and  wandered 
elsewhere.  The  stairs  were  so  infinitesimal  and  dear 
and  delicious  that  they  drew  from  her  a  sharp 
exclamation  of  delight.  She  ran  up  them  like  a  child. 
G.  J.  turned  switches.  In  the  little  glittering  dining- 
room  a  little  cold  repast  was  laid  for  two  on  an 
inlaid  table  covered  with  a  sheet  of  glass.  Christine 
gazed,  saying  nothing,  and  wandered  again  to  the 
drawing-room  floor,  while  G.  J.  hovered  attendant. 
She  went  to  the  vast  Regency  desk,  idly  fingering 
papers,  and  laid  hold  of  a  document.  It  was  his 
report  on  the  accountancy  of  the  Lechford  hospitals 
in  France.  She  scrutinised  it  carefully,  murmuring 
sentences  from  it  aloud  in  her  French  accent.  At 
length  she  dropped  it;  she  did  not  put  it  down,  she 
dropped  it,  and  murmured : 

"All  that — what  good  does  it  do  to  wounded  men? 
.  .  .  True,  I  comprehend  nothing  of  it — I!" 

Then  she  sat  to  the  piano,  whose  gorgeous  and 
fantastic  case  might  well  have  intimidated  even  a 
professional  musician. 

"Dare  I?"     She  took  off  her  gloves. 

As  she  began  to  play  her  best  waltz  she  looked 
round  at  G.  J.  and  said: 

"I  adore  thy  staircase." 

And  that  was  all  she  did  say  about  the  flat.    Still, 


THE  VISIT  141 

her  demeanour,  mystifying  as  it  might  be,  was  be- 
nign, benevolent,  with  a  remarkable  appearance  of 
genuine  humility. 

G.  J.,  while  she  played,  discreetly  picked  up  the 
telephone  and  got  the  Marlborough  Club.  He  spoke 
low,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  waltz,  which  Christine 
in  her  nervousness  was  stumbling  over. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Montague  Ryper.  Yes, 
yes;  he  is  in -the  club.  I  spoke  to  him  about  an 
hour  ago,  and  he  is  waiting  for  me  to  ring  him  up. 
.  .  .  That  you,  Monty?  Well,  dear  heart,  I  find 
I  shan't  be  able  to  come  to-night  after  all.  I  should 
like  to  awfully,  but  I've  got  these  things  I  absolutely 
must  finish.  „  .  .  You  understand.  .  .  .  No,  no. 
...  Is  she,  by  Jove?  By-bye,  old  thing." 

When  Christine  had  pettishly  banged  the  last 
chord  of  the  coda,  he  came  close  to  her  and  said, 
with  an  appreciative  smile,  in  English : 

"Charming,  my  little  girl." 

She  shook  her  head,  gazing  at  the  front  of  the 
piano. 

He  murmured — it  was  almost  a  whisper: 

"Take  your  things  off." 

She  looked  around  and  up  at  him,  and  the  light 
diffused  from  a  thousand  lustres  fell  on  her  myste- 
rious and  absorbed  face. 

"My  little  rabbit,  I  cannot  stay  with  thee  to-night." 

The  words,  though  he  did  not  by  any  means  take 
them  as  final,  seriously  shocked  him.  For  five  days 
he  had  known  that  Mrs.  Braiding,  subject  to  his  con- 
venience, was  going  down  to  Bramshott  to  see  the 
defender  of  the  Empire.  For  four  days  he  had  hesi- 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

tated  whether  or  not  he  should  tell  her  that  she 
might  stay  away  for  the  night.  In  the  end  he  had 
told  her  to  stay  away;  he  had  insisted  that  she  should 
stay;  he  had  protested  that  he  was  quite  ready  to 
look  after  himself  for  a  night  and  a  morning.  She 
had  gone,  unwillingly,  having  first  arranged  a  meal 
which  he  said  he  was  to  share  with  a  friend — natu- 
rally, for  Mrs.  Braiding,  a  male  friend.  She  had 
wanted  him  to  dine  at  the  club,  but  he  had  explained 
to  Mrs.  Braiding  that  he  would  be  busy  upon  hos- 
pital work,  and  that  another  member  of  the  com- 
mittee would  be  coming  to  help  him — the  friend, 
of  course.  Even  when  he  had  contrived  this  elab- 
orate and  perfect  plot  he  had  still  hesitated  about 
the  bold  step  of  inviting  Christine  to  the  flat.  The 
plan  was  extremely  attractive,  but  it  held  dangers. 
Well,  he  had  invited  her.  If  she  had  not  been  at 
home,  or  if  she  had  been  unwilling  to  come,  he  would 
not  have  felt  desolated;  he  would  have  accepted  the 
fact  as  perhaps  providential.  But  she  was  at  home ; 
she  was  willing;  she  had  come.  She  was  with  him; 
she  had  put  him  into  an  ecstacy  of  satisfaction  and 
anticipation.  One  evening  alone  with  her  in  his  own 
beautiful  flat!  What  a  frame  for  her  and  for  love! 
And  now  she  said  that  she  would  not  stay.  It  was 
incredible;  it  could  not  be  permitted. 

"But  why  not?  We  are  happy  together.  I  havtf 
just  refused  a  dinner  because  of — this.  Didn't  you 
hear  me  on  the  'phone?" 

"Thou  wast  wrong,"  she  smiled.  "I  am  not  worth 
a  dinner.  It  is  essential  that  I  should  return  home. 
I  am  tired — tired.  It  is  Sunday  night,  and  I  have 


THE  VISIT 

sworn  to  myself  that  I  will  pass  this  evening  at  home 
— alone." 

Exasperating,  maddening  creature!  He  thought: 
"I  fancied  I  knew  her,  and  I  don't  know  her.  I'm 
only  just  beginning  to  know  her."  He  stared  stead- 
ily at  her  soft,  serious,  worried,  enchanting  face, 
and  tried  to  see  through  it  into  the  arcana  of  her 
queer  little  brain.  He  could  not.  The  sweet  face 
foiled  him. 

"Then  why  come?" 

"Because  I  wished  to  be  nice  to  thee,  to  prove  to 
thee  how  nice  I  am." 

She  seized  her  gloves.  He  saw  that  she  meant 
to  go.  His  demeanour  changed.  He  was  aware  of 
his  power  over  her,  and  he  would  use  it.  She  was 
being  subtle;  but  he  could  be  subtle  too,  far  subtler 
than  Christine.  True,  he  had  not  penetrated  her 
face.  Nevertheless  his  instinct,  and  his  male  gift  of 
ratiocination,  informed  him  that  beneath  her  gentle 
politeness  she  was  vexed,  hurt,  because  he  had  got 
rid  of  Mrs.  Braiding  before  receiving  her.  She  had 
her  feelings,  and  despite  her  softness  she  could  re- 
sent. Still,  her  feelings  must  not  be  over-indulged; 
they  must  not  be  permitted  to  make  a  fool  of  her. 
He  said,  rather  teasingly,  but  firmly: 

"I  know  why  she  refuses  to  stay." 

She  cried,  plaintive: 

"It  is  not  that  I  have  another  rendezvous.  No! 
But  naturally  thou  thinkest  it  is  that." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  at  all.  The  little  silly  wants  to  go  back 
home  because  she  finds  there  is  no  servant  here. 


144.  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

She  is  insulted  in  her  pride.  I  noticed  it  in  her 
first  words  when  she  came  in.  And  yet  she  ought  to 
know " 

Christine  gave  a  loud  laugh  that  really  discon- 
certed him. 

"Au  revoir,  my  old  one.  Embrace  me."  She 
dropped  the  veil. 

"No!" 

He  could  play  a  game  of  pretence  longer  than 
she  could.  She  moved  with  dignity  towards  the 
door,  but  never  would  she  depart  like  that.  He 
knew  that  when  it  came  to  the  point  she  was  at 
the  mercy  of  her  passion  for  him.  She  had  con- 
fessed the  tyranny  of  her  passion,  as  such  victims 
foolishly  will.  Moreover  he  had  perceived  it  for 
himself.  He  followed  her  to  the  door.  At  the  door 
she  would  relent.  And,  sure  enough,  at  the  dooi 
she  leapt  at  him  and  clasped  his  neck  with  fierceness 
and  fiercely  kissed  him  through  her  veil,  and  ex« 
claimed  bitterly: 

"Ah  1    Thou  dost  not  love  me,  but  I  love  thee !" 

But  the  next  instant  she  had  managed  to  open  the 
door  and  she  was  gone. 

He  sprang  out  to  the  landing.  She  was  running 
down  the  stone  stairs. 

"Christine!" 

She  did  not  stop.  G.  J.  might  be  marvellously 
subtle;  but  he  could  not  be  subtle  enough  to  divine 
that  on  that  night  Christine  happened  to  be  the 
devotee  of  the  most  clement  Virgin,  and  that  her 
demeanour  throughout  the  visit  had  been  contrived, 
half  unconsciously,  to  enable  her  to  perform  a  deed 


THE  VISIT  145 

of  superb  self-denial  and  renunciation  in  the  service 
of  the  dread  goddess.  He  ate  most  miserably  alone, 
facing  an  empty  chair;  the  desolate  solitude  of  the 
evening  was  terrible ;  he  lacked  the  force  to  go  seek- 
ing succour  in  dubs. 


CHAPTER  XX 


MASCOT 

A  SINGLE  light  burned  in  Christine's  bedroom.  It 
stood  low  on  the  pedestal  by  the  wide  bed  and  was 
heavily  shaded,  so  that  only  one  half  of  the  bed, 
Christine's  half,  was  exempt  from  the  general  gloom 
of  the  chamber.  The  officer  had  thus  ordained 
things.  The  white,  plump  arm  of  Christine  was  im- 
prisoned under  his  neck.  He  had  ordered  that  too. 
He  was  asleep.  Christine  watched  him.  On  her 
return  from  the  Albany  she  had  found  him  appar- 
ently just  as  she  had  left  him,  except  that  he  was 
much  less  talkative.  Indeed,  though  unswervingly 
polite — even  punctilious  with  her — he  had  grown 
quite  taciturn  and  very  obstinate  and  finicking  in  self- 
assertion.  There  was  no  detail  as  to  which  he  did 
not  formulate  a  definite  wish.  Yet  not  until  by 
chance  her  eye  fell  on  the  whisky  decanter  did  she 
perceive  that  in  her  absence  he  had  been  copiously 
drinking  again.  He  was  not,  however,  drunk.  Re- 
morseful at  her  defection,  she  constituted  herself  his 
slave;  she  covered  him  with  acquiescences;  she  drank 
his  tippler's  breath.  And  he  was  not  particularly 
responsive.  He  had  all  his  own  ideas.  He  ought, 
for  example,  to  have  been  hungry,  but  his  idea  was 
that  he  was  not  hungry;  therefore  he  had  refused 
her  dishes. 

146 


MASCOT  147 

She  knew  him  better  now.  Save  on  one  subject, 
discussed  in  the  afternoon,  he  was  a  dull,  narrow, 
direct  man,  especially  in  love.  He  had  no  fancy,  no 
humour,  no  resilience.  Possibly  he  worshipped 
women,  as  he  had  said,  perhaps  devoutly;  but  his 
worship  of  the  individual  girl  tended  more  to  ritual- 
ism than  to  ecstacy.  The  Parisian  devotee  was 
thrown  away  on  him,  and  she  felt  it.  But  not  with 
bitterness.  On  the  contrary,  she  liked  him  to  be  as 
he  was;  she  liked  to  be  herself  unappreciated,  neg- 
lected, bored.  She  thought  of  the  delights  which  she 
had  renounced  in  the  rich  and  voluptuous  drawing- 
room  of  the  Albany;  she  gazed  under  the  reddish 
illumination  at  the  tedious  eternal  market-place  on 
which  she  exposed  her  wares,  and  which  in  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  went  by  the  name  of  bedstead;  and 
she  gathered  nausea  and  painful  longing  to  her 
breast  as  the  Virgin  gathered  the  swords  of  the 
Dolours  at  the  Oratory,  and  was  mystically  happy 
in  the  ennui  of  serving  the  miraculous  envoy  of  the 
Virgin.  And  when  Marthe,  uneasy,  stole  into  the 
sitting-room,  Christine,  the  door  being  ajar,  most 
faintly  transmitted  to  her  a  command  in  French  to 
tranquillise  herself  and  go  away.  And  outside  a  boy 
broke  the  vast  lull  of  the  Sunday  night  with  a  shat- 
tering cry  of  victory  in  the  North  Sea. 

Possibly  it  was  this  cry  that  roused  the  officer 
out  of  his  doze.  He  sat  up,  looked  unseeing  at 
Christine's  bright  smile  and  at  the  black  gauze  that 
revealed  the  reality  of  her  youth,  and  then  reached 
for  his  tunic  which  hung  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"You  asked  about  my  mascot,"  he  said,  draw- 


148  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

ing  from  a  pocket  a  small  envelope  of  semi-trans- 
parent oilskin.  "Here  it  is.  Now  that  is  a  mascot!" 

He  had  wakened  under  the  spell  of  his  original 
theme,  of  his  sole  genuine  subject.  He  spoke  with 
assurance,  as  one  inspired.  His  eyes,  as  they  master- 
fully encountered  Christine's  eyes,  had  a  strange, 
violent,  religious  expression.  Christine's  eyes  yielded 
to  his,  and  her  smile  vanished  in  seriousness.  He  un- 
did the  envelope  and  displayed  an  oval  piece  of  red 
cloth  with  a  picture  of  Christ,  his  bleeding  heart  sur- 
rounded by  flames  and  thorns  and  a  great  cross  in  the 
background. 

"That,"  said  the  officer,  "will  bring  anybody  safe 
home  again."  Christine  was  too  awed  even  to  touch 
the  red  cloth.  The  vision  of  the  dishevelled,  in- 
spired man  in  khaki  shirt,  collar  and  tie,  holding  the 
magic  saviour  in  his  thin,  veined,  aristocratic  hand, 
powerfully  impressed  her,  and  she  neither  moved 
nor  spoke. 

"Have  you  seen  the  'Touchwood'  mascot?"  he 
asked.  She  signified  a  negative,  and  then  nervously 
fingered  her  gauze.  "No?  It's  a  well-known  mas- 
cot. Sort  of  tiny  imp  sort  of  thing,  with  a  huge  head, 
glittering  eyes,  a  khaki  cap  of  oak,  and  crossed  legs 
in  gold  and  silver.  I  hear  that  tens  of  thousands  of 
them  are  sold.  But  there  is  nothing  like  my  mas- 
cot." 

"Where  have  you  got  it?"  Christine  asked  in  hef 
queer  but  improving  English. 

"Where  did  I  get  it?  Just  after  Mons,  on  the 
road,  in  a  house." 

"Have  you  been  in  the  retreat?" 


MASCOT 

"I  was." 

"And  the  angels?    Have  you  seen  them?" 

He  paused,  and  then  said  with  solemnity: 

"Was  it  an  angel  I  saw?  .  .  .  I  was  lying  dogga 
by  myself  in  a  hole,  and  bullets  whizzing  over  me 
all  the  time.  It  was  nearly  dark,  and  a  figure  in  white 
came  and  stood  by  the  hole;  he  stood  quite  still  and 
the  German  bullets  went  on  just  the  same.  Suddenly 
I  saw  he  was  wounded  in  the  hand;  it  was  bleeding. 
I  said  to  him:  'You're  hit  in  the  hand.'  'No,'  he 
said — he  had  a  most  beautiful  voice — 'that  is  an  old 
wound.  It  has  reopened  lately.  I  have  another 
wound  in  the  other  hand.'  And  he  showed  me  the 
other  hand,  and  that  was  bleeding  too.  Then  the 
firing  ceased,  and  he  pointed,  and  although  I'd  eaten 
nothing  at  all  that  day  and  was  dead-beat,  I  got  up 
and  ran  the  way  he  pointed,  and  in  five  minutes  I 
ran  into  what  remained  of  my  unit." 

The  officer's  sonorous  tones  ceased;  he  shut  his 
lips  tightly,  as  though  clinching  the  testimony,  and 
the  life  of  the  bedroom  was  suspended  in  absolute 
silence. 

"That's  what  /  saw.  .  .  .  And  with  the  lack  of 
food  my  brain  was  absolutely  clear." 

Christine,  on  her  back,  trembled. 

The  officer  replaced  his  mascot.  Then  he  said, 
waving  the  little  bag: 

"Of  course,  there  are  fellows  who  don't  need  mas- 
cots. Fellows  that  if  their  name  isn't  written  on  a 
bullet  or  a  piece  of  shrapnel  it  won't  reach  them 
any  more  than  a  letter  not  addressed  to  you  would 
reach  you.  Now  my  Colonel,  for  instance, — it  was 


150  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

he  who  told  me  how  good  my  mascot  was — well,  he 
can  stop  shells,  turn  'em  back.  Yes.  He's  just  got 
the  D.S.O.  And  he  said  to  me,  'Edgar,'  he  said,  'I 
don't  deserve  it.  I  got  it  by  inspiration.'  And  so  he 
did.  .  .  .  What  time's  that?" 

The  gilded  Swiss  clock  in  the  drawing-room  was 
striking  its  tiny  gong. 

"Nine  o'clock." 

The  officer  looked  dully  at  his  wrist  watch  which, 
not  having  been  wound  on  the  previous  night,  had 
inconsiderately  stopped. 

"Then  I  can't  catch  my  train  at  Victoria."  He 
spoke  in  a  changed  voice,  lifeless,  and  sank  back  on 
the  bed. 

"Train?    What  train?" 

"Nothing.  Only  the  leave-train.  My  leave  is  up 
to-night.  To-morrow  I  ought  to  have  been  back  in 
the  trenches." 

"But  you  have  told  me  nothing  of  it!  If  you  had 
told  me But  not  one  word,  my  dear." 

"When  one  is  with  a  woman !" 

He  seemed  gloomily  and  hopelessly  to  reproach 
her. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   LEAVE-TRAIN 

"WHAT  o'clock — your  train?" 

"Nine-thirty." 

"But  you  can  catch  it.    You  must  catch  it.'* 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It's  fate,"  he  muttered,  bitterly  resigned.  "What 
is  written  is  written." 

Christine  sprang  to  the  floor,  shuffled  off  the  black 
gauze  in  almost  a  single  movement,  and  seized  some 
of  her  clothes. 

"Quick!  You  shall  catch  your  train.  The  clock 
is  wrong — the  clock  is  too  soon." 

She  implored  him  with  positive  desperation.  She 
shook  him  and  dragged  him,  energised  in  an  instant 
by  the  overwhelming  idea  that  for  him  to  miss  his 
train  would  be  fatal  to  him — and  to  her  also.  She 
could  and  did  believe  in  the  efficacy  of  mascots 
against  bullets  and  shrapnel  and  bayonets.  But  the 
traditions  of  a  country  of  conscripts  were  ingrained 
in  her  childhood  and  youth,  and  she  had  not  the 
slightest  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  no  matter  what  mas- 
cot to  protect  from  the  consequences  of  indiscipline. 
And  already  during  her  short  career  in  London  she 
had  had  good  reason  to  learn  the  sacredness  of  the 
leave-train.  Fantastic  tales  she  had  heard  of  capital 


152  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

executions  for  what  seemed  trifling  laxities — tales 
whispered  half  proudly  by  the  army  in  the  rooms  of 
horrified  courtesans — tales  in  which  the  remote  and 
ruthless  imagined  figure  of  the  Grand  Provost  Mar- 
shal rivalled  that  of  God  himself.  And,  moreover, 
if  this  man  fell  into  misfortune  through  her,  she 
would  eternally  lose  the  grace  of  the  most  clement 
Virgin  who  had  confided  him  to  her  and  who  was 
capable  of  terrible  revenges.  She  secretly  called  on 
the  Virgin.  Nay,  she  became  the  Virgin.  She  found 
a  miraculous  strength,  and  furiously  pulled  the  poor 
sot  out  of  bed.  The  fibres  of  his  character  had  been 
soaked  away,  and  she  mystically  replaced  them  with 
her  own.  Intimidated  and,  as  it  were,  mesmerised, 
he  began  to  dress.  She  rushed  as  she  was  to  the 
door. 

"Marthe!     Marthe!" 

"Madame?"  replied  the  fat  woman  in  alarm. 

"Run  for  a  taxi." 

"But,  madame,  it  is  raining  terribly." 

"Je  m'en  fous!     Run  for  a  taxi." 

Turning  back  into  the  room  she  repeated : 

"The  clock  is  too  soon." 

But  she  knew  that  it  was  not. 

Nearly  nude,  she  put  on  a  hat. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Do  not  worry.     I  come  with  you." 

She  took  a  skirt  and  a  jersey  and  then  threw  a 
cloak  over  everything.  He  was  very  slow;  he  could 
find  nothing;  he  could  button  nothing.  She  helped 
him.  But  when  he  began  to  finger  his  leggings  with 


THE  LEAVE-TRAIN"  153 

the  endless  laces  and  the  innumerable  eyelets  she 
snatched  them  from  him. 

"Those — in  the  taxi,"  she  said. 

"But  there  is  no  taxi." 

"There  will  be  a  taxi.    I  have  sent  the  maid." 

At  the  last  moment,  as  she  was  hurrying  him  on 
to  the  staircase,  she  grasped  her  handbag.  They 
stumbled  one  after  the  other  down  the  dark  stairs. 
He  had  now  caught  the  infection  of  her  tremendous 
anxiety.  She  opened  the  front  door.  The  glisten- 
ing street  was  absolutely  empty;  the  rain  pelted  on 
the  pavements  and  the  roadway,  each  drop  falling 
like  a  missile  and  raising  a  separate  splash,  so  that 
it  seemed  as  if  the  flood  on  the  earth  was  leaping 
up  to  meet  the  flood  from  the  sky. 

"Come !"  she  said  with  hysterical  impatience. 
"We  cannot  wait.  There  will  be  a  taxi  in  Piccadilly, 
I  know." 

Simultaneously  a  taxi  swerved  round  the  corner 
of  Burlington  Street.  Marthe  stood  on  the  step  next 
to  the  driver.  As  the  taxi  halted  she  jumped  down. 
Her  drenched  white  apron  was  over  her  head  and 
she  was  wet  to  the  skin. 

In  the  taxi,  while  the  officer  struck  matches,  Chris- 
tine knelt  and  fastened  his  leggings;  he  could  not 
have  performed  the  nice  operation  for  himself.  And 
all  the  time  she  was  doing  something  else — she  was 
pushing  forward  the  whole  taxi,  till  her  muscles 
ached  with  the  effort.  Then  she  sat  back  on  the  seat, 
smoothed  her  hair  under  the  hat,  unclasped  the  bag, 
and  patted  her  features  delicately  with  the  powder- 
pufi.  Neither  knew  the  exact  time,  and  in  vain  they 


154  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

tried  to  discern  the  faces  of  clocks  that  flew  past 
them  in  the  heavy  rain.  Christine  sighed  and  said: 

"These  tempests.  This  rain.  They  say  it  is  be- 
cause of  the  big  cannons — which  break  the  clouds." 

The  officer,  who  had  the  air  of  being  in  a  dream, 
suddenly  bent  towards  her  and  replied  with  a  most 
strange  solemnity: 

"It  is  to  wash  away  the  blood!" 

She  had  not  thought  of  that.  Of  course  it  was! 
She  sighed  again. 

As  they  neared  Victoria  the  officer  said: 

"My  kit-bag!  It's  at  the  hotel.  Shall  I  have  time 
to  pay  my  bill  and  get  it?  The  Grosvenor's  next  to 
the  station,  you  know." 

She  answered  unhesitatingly: 

"You  will  go  direct  to  the  train.  I  will  try  the 
hotel." 

"Drive  around  to  the  Grosvenor  entrance  like 
hell,"  he  instructed  the  driver  when  the  taxi  stopped 
in  the  station  yard. 

In  the  hotel  she  would  never  have  got  the  bag, 
owing  to  her  difficulties  in  explaining  the  situation 
in  English  to  a  haughty  reception-clerk,  had  not  a 
French-Swiss  waiter  been  standing  by.  She  flung 
imploring  French  sentences  at  the  waiter  like  a 
stream  from  a  hydrant.  The  bill  was  produced  in 
less  than  half  a  minute.  She  put  down  money  of 
her  own  to  pay  for  it,  for  she  had  refused  to  wait 
at  the  station  while  the  officer  fished  in  the  obscuri- 
ties of  his  purse.  The  bag,  into  which  a  menial  had 
crammed  a  kit  probably  scattered  about  the  bed- 
room, arrived  unfastened.  Once  more  at  the  station, 


THE  LEAVE-TRAIN  155 

she  gavft  the  cabman  all  the  change  which  she  had 
received  at  the  hotel  counter.  By  a  miracle  she 
made  a  porter  understand  what  was  needed  and  how 
urgently  it  was  needed.  He  said  the  train  was  just 
going,  and  ran.  She  ran  after  him.  The  ticket- 
collector  at  the  platform  gate  allowed  the  porter  to 
pass,  but  raised  an  implacable  arm  to  prevent  her 
from  following.  She  had  no  platform  ticket,  and 
she  could  not  possibly  be  travelling  by  the  train. 
Then  she  descried  her  officer  standing  at  an  open 
carriage  door  in  conversation  with  another  officer 
and  tapping  his  leggings  with  his  cane.  How  aristo- 
cratic and  disdainful  and  self-absorbed  the  pair 
looked!  They  existed  in  a  world  utterly  different 
from  hers.  They  were  the  triumphant  and  negli- 
gent males.  She  endeavoured  to  direct  the  porter 
with  her  pointing  hand,  and  then,  hysterical  again, 
she  screamed  out  the  one  identifying  word  she  knew: 

"Edgar!" 

It  was  lost  in  the  resounding  echoes  of  the  im- 
mense vault.  Edgar  certainly  did  not  hear  it.  But 
he  caught  the  great  black  initials,  "E.  W.,"  on  the 
kit-bag  as  the  porter  staggered  along,  and  stopped 
the  aimless  man,  and  the  kit-bag  was  thrown  into 
the  compartment.  Doors  were  now  banging.  Chris- 
tine saw  Edgar  take  out  his  purse  and  fumble  at 
it.  But  Edgar's  companion  pushed  Edgar  into  the 
train  and  himself  gave  a  tip  which  caused  the  porter 
to  salute  extravagantly.  The  porter,  at  any  rate, 
had  been  rewarded.  Christine  began  to  cry,  not. 
from  chagrin,  but  with  relief.  Women  on  the  plat- 
form waved  absurd  little  white  handkerchiefs. 


156  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Heads  and  khaki  shoulders  stuck  out  of  the  carriage 
windows  of  the  shut  train.  A  small  green  flag 
waved;  arms  waved  like  semaphores.  The  train 
ought  to  have  been  gliding  away,  but  something 
delayed  it,  and  it  was  held  as  if  spellbound  under  the 
high,  dim  semicircle  of  black  glass,  amid  the  noises 
of  steam,  the  hissing  of  electric  globes,  the  horrible 
rattle  of  luggage  trucks,  the  patter  of  feet,  and  the 
vast,  murmuring  gloom.  Christine  saw  Edgar  lean- 
ing from  a  window  and  gazing  anxiously  about.  The 
little  handkerchiefs  were  still  courageously  waving, 
and  she,  too,  waved  a  little  wisp.  But  he  did  not 
see  her;  he  was  not  looking  in  the  right  place  for 
her. 

She  thought: 

"Why  did  he  not  stay  near  the  gate  for  me?" 

But  she  thought  again: 

"Because  he  feared  to  miss  the  train.  It  was 
necessary  that  he  should  be  close  to  his  compart- 
ment. He  knows  he  is  not  quite  sober." 

She  wondered  whether  he  had  any  relatives,  or 
any  relations  with  another  woman.  He  seemed  to 
be  as  solitary  as  she  was. 

On  the  same  side  of  the  platform-gate  as  herself 
a  very  tall,  slim,  dandy  of  an  officer  was  bending 
over  a  smartly  dressed  girl,  smiling  at  her  and  whis- 
pering. Suddenly  the  girl  turned  from  him  with  a 
disdainful  toss  of  the  head  and  said  in  a  loud,  clear 
Cockney  voice: 

"You  can't  tell  the  tale  to  me,  young  man.  This 
is  my  second  time  on  earth." 

Christine  heard  the  words,  but  was  completely 


THE  LEAVE-TRAIN  157 

puzzled.  The  train  moved,  at  first  almost  imper- 
ceptibly. The  little  handkerchiefs  showed  extreme 
agitation.  And  then  a  raucous  song  floated  from 
the  train: 

"John  Brown's  baby's  got  a  pimple  on  his — shoooo — 
John  Brown's  baby's  got  a  pimple  on  his — shoooo — 
John  Brown's  baby's  got  a  pimple  on  his — shoooo — 
And  we  all  went  marching  home. 
Glory,  glory,  Alleluia! 
Glory,  glory.  .  .  ." 

The  rails  showed  empty  where  the  train  had 
been,  and  the  sound  of  the  song  faded  and  died. 
Some  of  the  women  were  crying.  Christine  felt 
that  she  was  in  a  land  of  which  she  understood 
nothing  but  the  tears.  She  also  felt  very  cold  in 
the  legs. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR 

THE  floors  of  the  Reynolds  Galleries  were 
covered  with  some  hundreds  of  very  well  dressed  and 
very  expensively  dressed  women  and  some  scores  of 
men.  The  walls  were  covered  with  a  loan  collection 
of  oil  paintings,  water-colour  drawings,  and  etchings 
— English  and  French,  but  chiefly  English.  A  very 
large  proportion  of  the  pictures  were  portraits  of 
women  done  by  a  select  group  of  very  expensive 
painters  in  the  highest  vogue.  These  portraits  were 
the  main  attraction  of  the  elegant  crowd,  which  in- 
cluded many  of  the  sitters;  as  for  the  latter,  they 
failed  to  hide  under  an  unconvincing  mask  of  indif- 
ference their  curiosity  as  to  their  own  effectiveness 
in  a  frame. 

The  portraits  for  the  most  part  had  every  quality 
save  that  of  sincerity.  They  were  transcendently 
adroit  and  they  reeked  of  talent.  They  were  luxu- 
rious, refined,  sensual,  titillating,  exquisite,  tender, 
compact  of  striking  poses  and  subtle  new  tones. 
And  while  the  heads  were  well  finished  and  instantly 
recognisable  as  likenesses,  the  impressionism  of  the 
hands  and  of  the  provocative  draperies  showed  that 
the  artists  had  fully  realised  the  necessity  of  being 
modern.  The  mischief  and  the  damnation  were 

158 


GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR         159 

that  the  sitters  liked  them  because  they  produced 
in  the  sitters  the  illusion  that  the  sitters  were  really 
what  the  sitters  wanted  to  be,  and  what  indeed  nearly 
every  woman  in  the  galleries  wanted  to  be;  and  the 
ideal  of  the  sitters  was  a  low  ideal.  The  portraits 
flattered;  but  only  a  few  guessed  that  they  flattered 
ignobly;  scarcely  any  even  of  the  artists  guessed 
that. 

The  portraits  were  a  success;  the  exhibition  was 
a  success;  and  all  the  people  at  the  private  view 
justly  felt  that  they  were  part  of  and  contributing 
to  the  success.  And  though  seemingly  the  aim  of 
everybody  was  to  prove  to  everybody  else  that  no 
war,  not  the  greatest  war,  could  disturb  the  appear- 
ances of  social  life  in  London,  yet  many  were  prop- 
erly serious  and  proud  in  their  seriousness.  It  was 
the  autumn  of  1915.  British  troops  were  triumph- 
antly on  the  road  to  Kut,  and  British  forces  were 
approaching  decisive  victory  in  Gallipoli.  The 
Russians  had  turned  on  their  pursuers.  The  French 
had  initiated  in  Champagne  an  offensive  so  dra- 
matic that  it  was  regarded  as  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  And  the  British  on  their  left,  in  the  taking  of 
Loos  and  Hill  70,  had  achieved  what  might  have 
been  regarded  as  the  greatest  success  on  the  Western 
front,  had  it  not  been  for  the  rumour,  current  among 
the  informed  personages  at  the  Reynolds  Galleries, 
that  recent  bulletins  had  been  reticent  to  the  point  of 
deception  and  that,  in  fact,  Hill  70  had  ceased  to  be 
ours  a  week  earlier.  Further,  Zeppelins  had  raided 
London  and  had  killed  and  wounded  numerous  Lon- 


160  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

doners,  and  all  present  in  the  Reynolds  Galleries 
were  aware,  from  positive  statements  fn  the  news- 
papers, that  whereas  German  morale  was  crumbling, 
all  Londoners,  including  themselves,  had  behaved 
with  the  most  maivellous  stoic  calm  in  the  ordeal 
of  the  Zeppelins. 

The  assembly  had  a  further  and  particular  reason 
for  serious  pride.  It  was  getting  on  with  the  war, 
and  in  a  most  novel  way.  Private  views  are  custom- 
arily views  gratis.  But  the  entry  to  this  private 
view  cost  a  guinea,  and  there  was  absolutely  no  free 
list.  The  guineas  were  going  to  the  support  of  the 
Lechford  Hospitals  in  France.  The  happy  idea  was 
G.  J.'s  own,  and  Lady  Queenie  Paulle  and  her 
mother  had  taken  the  right  influential  measures  to 
ensure  its  grandiose  execution.  A  queen  had  visited 
the  private  view  for  half  an  hour.  Thus  all  the  very 
well  dressed  and  very  expensively  dressed  women, 
and  all  the  men  who  admired  and  desired  them  as 
they  moved,  in  voluptuous  perfection,  amid  dazzling 
pictures  with  the  soft  illumination  of  screened  sky- 
lights above  and  the  reflections  in  polished  parquet 
below — all  of  both  sexes  were  comfortably  conscious 
of  virtue  in  the  undoubted  fact  that  they  were  help- 
ing to  support  two  renowned  hospitals  where  at  that 
very  moment  dissevered  legs  and  arms  were  being 
thrown  into  buckets. 

In  a  little  room  at  the  end  of  the  galleries  was  a 
small  but  choice  collection  of  the  etchings  of  Felicien 
Rops:  a  collection  for  connoisseurs,  as  the  critics 
were  to  point  out  in  the  newspapers  the  next  morn- 
ing. For  Rops,  though  he  had  an  undeniable  par- 


GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR        161 

tiality  for  subjects  in  which  ugly  and  prurient  women 
displayed  themselves  in  nothing  but  the  inessentials 
of  costume,  was  a  classic  before  whom  it  was  neces- 
sary to  bow  the  head  in  homage. 

G.  J.  was  in  this  room  in  company  with  a  young 
and  handsome  staff  officer,  Lieutenant  Molder,  home 
on  convalescent  leave  from  Suvla  Bay.  Mr.  Mold- 
er had  left  Oxford  in  order  to  join  the  army;  he 
had  behaved  admirably,  and  well  earned  the  red 
shoulder-ornaments  which  pure  accident  had  given 
him.  He  was  a  youth  of  artistic  and  literary 
tastes,  with  genuine  ambitions  quite  other  than  mil- 
itary, and  after  a  year  of  horrible  existence  in  which 
he  had  hungered  for  the  arts  more  than  for  any- 
thing else,  he  was  solacing  and  renewing  himself  in 
the  contemplation  of  all  the  masterpieces  that  Lon- 
don could  show.  He  greatly  esteemed  G.  J.'s  con- 
noisseurship,  and  G.  J.  had  taken  him  in  hand.  At 
the  close  of  a  conscientious  and  highly  critical 
round  of  the  galleries  they  had  at  length  reached  the 
Rops  room,  and  they  were  discussing  every  aspect 
of  Rops  except  his  lubricity,  when  Lady  Queenie 
Paulle  approached  them  from  behind.  Molder  was 
the  first  to  notice  her  and  to  turn.  He  blushed. 

"Well,  Queen,"  said  G.  J.,  who  had  already  had 
several  conversations  with  her  in  the  galleries  that 
day  and  on  the  previous  days  of  preparation. 

She  replied : 

"Well,  I  hope  you're  satisfied  with  the  results  of 
your  beautiful  idea." 

The  young  woman,  slim  and  pale,  had  long  since 
gone  out  of  mourning.  She  was  most  brilliantly  at- 


162  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

tired,  and  no  detail  lacked  to  the  perfection  of  her 
modish  outfit.  Indeed,  just  as  she  was,  she  would 
have  made  a  marvellous  mannequin,  except  for  the 
fact  that  mannequins  are  not  usually  allowed  to 
perfume  themselves  in  business  hours.  Her  thin, 
rather  high  voice,  which  somehow  matched  her  com- 
plexion and  carriage,  had  its  customary  tone  of 
amiable  insolence,  and  her  tired,  drooping  eyes  their 
equivocal  glance,  as  she  faced  the  bearded  and  grave 
middle-aged  bachelor  and  the  handsome,  muscular 
boy;  even  the  boy  was  older  than  Queen,  yet  she 
seemed  to  condescend  to  them  as  if  she  were  an  im- 
mortal from  everlasting  to  everlasting  and  could 
teach  both  of  them  all  sorts  of  useful  things  about 
life.  Nobody  could  have  guessed  from  that  serene 
demeanour  that  her  self-satisfaction  was  marred  by 
any  untoward  detail  whatever.  Yet  it  was.  All 
her  frocks  were  designed  to  conceal  a  serious  de- 
fect which  seriously  disturbed  her:  she  was  low- 
breasted. 

G.  J.  said  bluntly : 

"May  I  present  Mr.  Molder? — Lady  Queenie 
Paulle." 

And  he  said  to  himself,  secretly  annoyed : 

"Dash  the  infernal  chit.  That's  what  she's  come 
for.  Now  she's  got  it." 

She  gave  the  slightest,  dubious  nod  to  Molder, 
•who,  having  faced  fighting  Turks  with  an  equanimity 
equal  to  Queenie's  own,  was  yet  considerably  flur- 
ried by  the  presence  and  the  gaze  of  this  legendary 
girl.  Queenie,  enjoying  his  agitation,  but  affecting 
to  ignore  him,  began  to  talk  quickly  in  the  vein  of 


GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR         163 

exclusive  gossip ;  she  mentioned  in  a  few  seconds  the 
topics  of  the  imminent  entry  of  Bulgaria  into  the 
war,  the  maturing  Salonika  expedition,  the  confi- 
dential terrible  utterances  of  K.  on  recruiting,  and, 
of  course,  the  misfortune  (due  to  causes  which 
Queenie  had  at  her  finger-ends)  round  about  Loos. 
Then  in  regard  to  the  last  she  suddenly  added,  quite 
unjustifiably  implying  that  the  two  phenomena  were 
connected. 

"You  know,  mother's  hospitals  are  frightfully  full 
just  now.  .  .  .  But,  of  course,  you  do  know. 
That's  why  I'm  so  specially  glad  to-day's  such  a 
success." 

Thus  in  a  moment,  and  with  no  more  than  ten 
phrases,  she  had  conveyed  the  suggestion  that  while 
mere  soldiers,  ageing  men-about-town,  and  the  in- 
genuous mass  of  the  public  might  and  did  foolishly 
imagine  the  war  to  be  a  simple  affair,  she  herself, 
by  reason  of  her  intelligence  and  her  private  sources 
of  knowledge,  had  a  full,  unique  apprehension  of  its 
extremely  complex  and  various  formidableness. 
G.  J.  resented  the  familiar  attitude,  and  he  resented 
Queenie's  very  appearance  and  the  appearance  of 
the  entire  opulent  scene.  In  his  head  at  that  pre- 
cise instant  were  not  only  the  statistics  of  mortality 
and  major  operations  at  the  Lechford  hospitals,  but 
also  the  astounding  desolating  tales  of  the  handsome 
boy  about  folly,  ignorance,  stupidity  and  martyrdoms 
at  Suvla. 

He  said,  with  the  peculiar  polite  restraint  that  in 
him  masked  emotion  and  acrimony: 

"Yes,  I'm  glad  it's  a  success.     But  the  machinery 


164.  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

of  it  is  perhaps  just  slightly  out  of  proportion  to 
the  results.  If  people  had  given  to  the  hospitals 
what  they  have  spent  on  clothes  to  come  here  and 
what  they've  paid  painters  so  that  they  could  see 
themselves  on  the  walls,  we  should  have  made  twenty 
times  as  much  as  we  have  made — a  hundred  times 
as  much.  Why,  good  God !  Queen,  the  whole  after- 
noon's takings  wouldn't  buy  what  you're  wearing 
now,  to  say  nothing  of  the  five  hundred  other  wo- 
men here."  His  eye  rested  on  the  badge  of  her 
half-brother's  regiment  which  she  had  had  repro- 
duced in  diamonds. 

At  this  juncture  he  heard  himself  addressed  in 
a  hearty,  heavy  voice  as  "G.  J.,  old  soul."  An 
officer  with  the  solitary  crown  on  his  sleeve,  bald, 
stoutish,  but  probably  not  more  than  forty-five, 
touched  him — much  more  gently  than  he  spoke — on 
the  shoulder. 

"Craive,  my  son!  You  back!  Well,  it's  startling 
to  see  you  at  a  picture-show,  anyhow." 

The  Major,  saluting  Lady  Queenie  as  a  distant 
acquaintance,  retorted: 

"Morally,  you  owe  me  a  guinea,  my  dear  G.  J. 
I  called  at  the  flat,  and  the  young  woman  there  told 
me  you'd  surely  be  here." 

While  they  were  talking  G.  J.  could  hear  Queenie 
Paulle  and  Molder: 

"Where  are  you  back  from?" 

"Suvla,  Lady  Queenie." 

"You  must  be  oozing  with  interest  and  actuality. 
Tell  G.  J.  to  bring  you  to  tea  one  day,  quite,  quite 
soon,  will  yoy?  7'11  tell  him."  And  Molder  mur- 


GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR         165 

mured  something  fatuously  conventional.  G.  J. 
showed  decorously  that  he  had  caught  his  own  name. 
Whereupon  Lady  Queenie,  instead  of  naming  a  day 
for  tea,  addressed  him  almost  bitterly: 

"G.  J.,  what's  come  over  you?  What  in  the 
name  of  Pan  do  you  suppose  all  you  males  are  fight- 
ing each  other  for?"  She  paused  effectively.  "Good 
God !  If  I  began  to  dress  like  a  housemaid  the  Ger- 
mans would  be  in  London  in  a  month.  Our  job  as 
women  is  quite  delicate  enough  without  you  making 
it  worse  by  any  damned  sentimental  superficiality. 
...  I  want  you  to  bring  Mr.  Molder  to  tea  to- 
morrow, and  if  you  can't  come  he  must  come 
alone.  ..." 

With  a  last  strange  look  at  Molder  she  retired 
into  the  glitter  of  the  crowded  larger  room. 

"She  been  driving  any  fresh  men  to  suicide  late- 
ly?" Major  Craive  demanded  acidly  under  his 
breath. 

G.  J.  raised  his  eyebrows. 

Then: 

"That's  not  you,  Frankie !"  said  the  Major  with 
a  start  of  recognition  towards  the  Staff  lieutenant. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Molder. 

They  shook  hands.  At  the  previous  Christmas 
they  had  lain  out  together  on  the  cliffs  of  the  East 
Coast  in  wild  weather,  waiting  to  repel  a  phantom 
army  of  thirty  thousand  Germans. 

"It  was  the  red  hat  put  me  off,"  the  Major  ex- 
plained. 

"Not  my  fault,  sir,"  Molder  smiled. 
Devilish  glad  to  see  you,  my  boy." 


166  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

G.  J.  murmured  to  Molder: 

"You  don't  want  to  go  and  have  tea  with  her,  do 
you?" 

And  Molder  answered,  with  the  somewhat  fatu- 
ous, self-conscious  grin  that  no  amount  of  intelli- 
gence can  keep  out  of  the  face  of  a  good-looking 
fellow  who  knows  that  he  has  made  an  impression : 

"Well,  I  don't  know " 

G.  J.  raised  his  eyebrows  again,  but  with  indul- 
gence, and  winked  at  Craive. 

The  Major  shut  his  lips  tight,  then  stood  with  his 
mouth  open  for  a  second  or  two  in  the  attitude  of 
a  man  suddenly  receiving  the  onset  of  a  great  and 
original  idea. 

"She's  right,  hang  it  all!"  he  exclaimed.  "She's 
right!  Of  course  she  is!  Why,  what's  all  this" — 
he  waved  an  arm  at  the  wihole  scene — "what's  all 
this  but  sex?  Look  at  'em !  And  look  at  their  por- 
traits! You  aren't  going  to  tell  me!  What's  the 
good  of  pretending?  Hang  it  all,  when  my  own 
aunt  comes  down  to  breakfast  in  a  low-cut  blouse 
that  would  have  given  her  fits  even  in  the  evening 
ten  years  ago !  .  .  .  And  jolly  fine  too.  I'm  all  for 
it.  The  more  of  it  the  merrier — that's  what  I  say. 
And  don't  any  of  you  highbrows  go  trying  to  alter 
it.  If  you  do  I  retire,  and  you  can  defend  your  own 
bally  Front." 

"Craive,"  said  G.  J.  affectionately,  "until  you  and 
Queen  came  along  Molder  and  I  really  thought  we 
were  at  a  picture  exhibition,  and  we  still  think  so, 
don't  we,  Molder?"  The  Lieutenant  nodded.  "Now, 


GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR         167 

as  you're  here,  just  let  me  show  you  one  or  two 
things." 

"Oh!"  breathed  the  Major,  "have  pity.  It's  not 

any  canvas  woman  that  I  want By  Jove !"  He 

caught  sight  of  an  invention  of  Felicien  Rops,  a  pig 
on  the  end  of  a  string,  leading,  or  being  driven  by, 
a  woman  who  wore  nothing  but  stockings,  boots 
and  a  hat.  "What  do  you  call  that?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  that's  one  of  the  most  famous 
etchings  in  the  world." 

"Is  it?"  the  Major  said.  "Well,  I'm  not  sur- 
prised. There's  more  in  this  business  than  I  im- 
agined." He  set  himself  to  examine  all  the  exhibits 
by  Rops,  and  when  he  had  finished  he  turned  to  G.  J. 

"Listen  here,  G.  J.  We're  going  to  make  a  night 
of  it.  I've  decided  on  that." 

"Sorry,  dear  heart,"  said  G.  J.  "I'm  engaged 
with  Molder  to-night.  We  shall  have  some  private 
chamber  music  at  my  rooms — just  for  ourselves. 
You  ought  to  come.  Much  better  for  your  health." 

"What  time  will  the  din  be  over?" 

"About  eleven." 

"Now  I  say  again — listen  here.  Let's  talk  busi- 
ness. I'll  come  to  your  chamber-music.  I've  been 
before,  and  survived,  and  I'll  come  again.  But 
afterwards  you'll  come  with  me  to  the  Guinea- 
Fowl." 

"But,  my  dear  chap,  I  can't  throw  Molder  out 
into  Vigo  Street  at  eleven  o'clock,"  G.  J.  protested, 
startled  by  the  blunt  mention  of  the  notorious  night- 
club in  the  young  man's  presence. 

"Naturally  you  can't.    He'll  come  along  with  us. 


168  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Frankie  and  I  have  nearly  fallen  into  the  Nortk 
Sea  or  German  Ocean  together,  haven't  we, 
Frankie?  It'll  be  my  show.  And  I'll  turn  up  with 
the  stuff — one,  two  or  three  pretty  ladies  according 
as  your  worship  wishes." 

G.  J.  was  now  more  than  startled;  he  was 
shocked;  he  felt  his  checks  reddening.  It  was  the 
presence  of  Molder  that  confused  him.  Never  had 
he  talked  to  Molder  on  any  subjects  but  the  arts, 
and  if  they  had  once  or  twice  lighted  on  the  topic 
of  women  it  was  only  in  connection  with  the  arts. 
He  was  really  interested  in  and  admired  Molder's 
unusual  aesthetic  intelligence,  and  he  had  done  what 
he  could  to  foster  it,  and  he  immensely  appreciated 
Molder's  youthful  esteem  for  himself.  Moreover, 
he  was  easily  old  enough  to  be  Molder's  father.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  though  two  generations  might 
properly  mingle  in  anything  else,  they  ought  not  to 
mingle  in  licence.  Craive's  crudity  was  extraordi- 
nary. 

"See  here!"  Craive  went  on,  serious  and  deter- 
mined. "You  know  the  sort  of  thing  I've  come 
from.  I  got  four  days  unexpected.  I  had  to  run 
down  to  my  uncle's.  The  old  things  would  have 
died  if  I  hadn't.  To-morrow  I  go  back.  This  is 
my  last  night.  I  haven't  had  a  scratch  up  to  now. 
But  my  turn's  coming,  you  bet.  Next  week  I  may 
be  in  heaven  or  hell  or  anywhere,  or  blind  for  life 
or  without  my  legs  or  any  damn  thing  you  please. 
But  I'm  going  to  have  to-night,  and  you're  going  to 
join  in." 

G.   J.   saw  the  look  of  simple,   half-worshipful 


GETTING  ON  WITH  THE  WAR         169 

appeal  that  sometimes  came  into  Craive's  rather 
ingenuous  face.  He  well  knew  that  look,  and  it 
always  touched  him.  He  remembered  certain  de- 
scriptive letters  which  he  had  received  from  Craive 
at  the  Front, — they  corresponded  faithfully.  He 
could  not  have  explained  the  intimacy  of  his  rela- 
tions with  Craive.  They  had  begun  at  a  club,  over 
cards.  The  two  had  little  in  common — Craive  was 
a  stockbroker  when  world-wars  did  not  happen  to  be 
in  progress — but  G.  J.  greatly  liked  him  because, 
with  all  his  crudity,  he  was  such  a  decent,  natural 
fellow,  so  kind-hearted,  so  fresh  and  unassuming. 
And  Craive  on  his  part  had  developed  an  admira- 
tion for  G.  J.  which  G.  J.  was  quite  at  a  loss  to 
account  for.  The  one  clue  to  the  origin  of  the  mys- 
terious attachment  between  them  had  been  a  naive 
phrase  which  he  had  once  overheard  Craive  utter  to 
a  mutual  acquaintance:  "Old  G.  J.'s  so  subtle,  isn't 
he?" 

G.  J.  said  to  himself,  reconsidering  the  proposal: 

"And  why  on  earth  not?" 

And  then  aloud,  soothingly,  to  Craive: 

"All  right!    All  right!" 

The  Major  brightened  and  said  to  Molder: 

"You'll  come,  of  course?" 

"Oh!  Rather!"  answered  Molder,  quite  simply. 

And  G.  J.,  again  to  himself,  said: 

"I  am  a  simpleton." 

The  Major's  pleading,  and  the  spectacle  of  the 
two  officers  with  their  precarious  hold  on  life,  humil' 
iated  G.  J.  as  well  as  touched  him.  And,  if  only 
in  order  to  avoid  the  momentary  humiliation,  he 


170  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

would  have  been  well  content  to  be  able  to  roll  back 
his  existence  and  to  have  had  a  military  training 
and  to  be  with  them  in  the  sacred  and  proud  uni- 
form. 

"Now  listen  here!"  said  the  Major.  "About  the 
aforesaid  pretty  ladies " 

There  they  stood  together  in  the  corner,  hiding 
several  of  Rops's  eccentricities,  ostensibly  discussing 
art,  charity,  world-politics,  the  strategy  of  war,  the 
casualty  lists. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   CALL 

CHRISTINE  found  the  night  at  the  Guinea  Fowl 
rather  dull.  The  supper-room,  garish  and  tawdry 
in  its  decorations,  was  functioning  as  usual.  The 
round  tables  and  the  square  tables,  the  tables  large 
and  the  tables  small,  were  well  occupied  with  mixed 
parties  and  couples.  Each  table  had  its  own  yellow 
illumination,  and  the  upper  portion  of  the  room, 
with  a  certain  empty  space  in  the  centre  of  it,  was 
bafflingly  shadowed.  Between  two  high,  straight 
falling  curtains  could  be  seen  a  section  of  the  ball- 
room, very  bright  against  the  curtains,  with  the  fig- 
ures of  dancers  whose  bodies  seemed  to  be  glued 
to  each  other,  pale  to  black  or  pale  to  khaki,  pass- 
ing slowly  and  rhythmically  across.  The  rag-time 
music,  over  a  sort  of  ground-bass  of  syncopated  tom- 
tom, surged  through  the  curtains  like  a  tide  of  the 
sea  of  Aphrodite,  and  bathed  everyone  at  the  supper 
tables  in  a  mysterious  aphrodisiacal  fluid.  The  wait- 
ers alone  were  insensible  to  its  influence.  They 
moved  to  and  fro  with  the  impassivity  and  disdain 
of  eunuchs  separated  forever  from  the  world's  temp- 
tations. Loud  laughs  or  shrill  little  shrieks  exploded 
at  intervals  from  the  sinister  melancholy  of  the  in- 
terior. 

171 


172  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

On  Christine's  left,  at  a  round  table  in  a  corner, 
sat  G.  J. ;  on  her  right,  the  handsome  boy  Molder. 
On  Molder's  right,  Miss  Aida  Altoun  spread  her 
amplitude,  and  on  G.  J.'s  left  was  a  young  girl 
known  to  the  company  as  Alice.  Major  Craive, 
the  host,  the  splendid  quality  of  whose  hospitality 
w*as  proved  by  the  flowers,  the  fruit,  the  bottles, 
the  cigar-boxes  and  the  cigarette-boxes  on  the  table, 
sat  between  Alice  and  Aida  Altoun. 

The  three  women  on  principle  despised  and 
scorned  each  other  with  false  warm  smiles  and  sud- 
den outbursts  of  compliment.  Christine  knew  that 
the  other  two  detested  her  as  being  "one  of  those 
French  girls"  who,  under  the  protection  of  Free 
Trade,  came  to  London  and,  by  their  lack  of  scruple 
and  decency,  took  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of 
the  nice,  modest,  respectable  English  girls.  She  on 
her  side  disdained  both  of  them,  not  merely  because 
they  were  courtesans  (which  somehow  Christine 
considered  she  really  was  not),  but  also  for  their 
characteristic  insipidity,  lackadaisicalness  and  ignor- 
ance of  the  technique  of  the  profession.  They  ex- 
pected to  be  paid  for  doing  nothing. 

Aida  Altoun  she  knew  by  sight  as  belonging  to  a 
great  rival  Promenade.  Aida  had  reached  the  pur- 
gatory of  obesity  which  Christine  always  feared. 
Despite  the  largeness  of  her  mass,  she  was  a  very 
beautiful  woman  in  the  English  manner,  blonde, 
soft,  idle,  without  a  trace  of  temperament,  and  in. 
comparably  dull  and  stupid.  But  she  was  ageing; 
she  had  been  favourably  known  in  the  West  End 
continuously  (save  for  a  brief  escapade  in  New 


THE  CALL  173 

York)  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  century.  She  was 
at  the  period  when  such  as  she  realise  with  flaccid 
alarm  that  they  have  no  future,  and  when  they  are 
ready  to  risk  grave  imprudences  for  youths  who  feel 
flattered  by  their  extreme  maturity.  Christine  gazed 
calmly  at  her,  supercilious  and  secure  in  the  im- 
mense advantage  of  at  least  fifteen  years  to  the 
good. 

And  if  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  at  Aida  for 
being  too  old,  Christine  did  the  same  at  Alice  for 
being  too  young.  Alice  was  truly  a  girl — probably 
not  more  than  seventeen.  Her  pert,  pretty,  infantile 
face  was  an  outrage  against  the  code.  She  was  a 
mere  amateur,  with  everything  to  learn,  absurdly 
presuming  upon  the  very  quality  which  would  van- 
ish first.  And  she  was  a  fool.  She  obviously  had 
no  sense,  not  even  the  beginnings  of  sense.  She  was 
wearing  an  impudently  expensive  frock  which  must 
have  cost  quite  five  times  as  much  as  Christine's  own, 
though  the  latter  in  the  opinion  of  the  wearer  was 
by  far  the  more  authentically  chic.  And  she  talked 
proudly  at  large  about  her  losses  on  the  turf  and  of 
the  swindles  practised  upon  her.  Christine  admitted 
that  the  girl  could  make  plenty  of  money,  and  would 
continue  to  make  money  for  a  long,  long  time,  bar 
accidents,  but  her  final  conclusion  about  Alice  was: 

uShe  will  end  on  straw." 

The  supper  was  over.  The  conversation  had 
never  been  vivacious,  and  now  it  was  half-drowned 
in  champagne.  The  girls  had  wanted  to  hear  about 
the  war,  but  the  Major,  who  had  arrived  in  a  rather 
dogmatic  mood,  put  an  absolute  ban  on  shop.  Alice 


174  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

had  then  kept  the  talk,  such  as  it  was,  upon  her 
favourite  topic — revues.  She  was  an  encyclopaedia 
of  knowledge  concerning  revues  past,  present,  and  to 
come.  She  had  once  indeed  figured  for  a  few  grand 
weeks  in  a  revue  chorus,  thereby  acquiring  unique 
status  in  her  world.  The  topic  palled  upon  both 
Aida  and  Christine.  And  Christine  had  said  to  her- 
self:  "They  are  aware  of  nothing,  those  two,"  for 
Aida  and  Alice  had  proved  to  be  equally  and  utter- 
ly ignorant  of  the  superlative  social  event  of  the  aft- 
ernoon, the  private  view  at  the  Reynolds  Galleries — 
at  which  indeed  Christine  had  not  assisted,  but  of 
which  she  had  learnt  all  the  intimate  details  from 
G.  J.  What,  Christine  demanded,  could  be  done 
with  such  a  pair  of  ninnies? 

She  might  have  been  excused  for  abandoning 
all  attempt  to  behave  as  a  woman  of  the  world 
should  at  a  supper  party.  Nevertheless,  she  con- 
tinued good-naturedly  and  conscientiously  in  the 
performance  of  her  duty  to  charm,  to  divert,  and 
to  enliven.  After  all,  the  ladies  were  there  to  cap- 
tivate the  males,  and  if  Aida  and  Alice  dishonestly 
flouted  obligations,  Christine  would  not.  She  would, 
at  any  rate,  show  them  how  to  behave.  She  espe- 
cially  attended  to  G.  J.,  who,  having  drunk  little, 
was  taciturn  and  preoccupied  in  his  amiabilities. 
She  divined  that  something  was  the  matter,  but  she 
could  not  divine  that  his  thoughts  were  saddened  by 
the  recollection  at  the  Guinea  Fowl  of  the  lovely 
music  which  he  had  heard  earlier  in  his  drawing- 
room  and  by  the  memory  of  the  Major's  letters  and 
of  what  the  Major  had  said  at  the  Reynolds  Caller- 


THE  CALL  175 

ies  about  the  past  and  the  possibilities  of  the  future. 
The  Major  was  very  benevolently  intoxicated,  and 
at  short  intervals  he  raised  his  glass  to  G.  J.,  who 
did  not  once  fail  to  respond  with  an  affectionate 
smile  which  Christine  had  never  before  seen  on  G. 
J.'s  face. 

Suddenly  Alice,  who  had  been  lounging  semi- 
somnolent  with  an  extinct  cigarette  in  her  jewelled 
fingers,  sat  up  and  said  in  the  uncertain  voice  of  an 
inexperienced  girl  who  has  ceased  to  count  the  num- 
ber of  glasses  emptied: 

"Shall  I  recite?    I've  been  trained,  you  know." 
And,  not  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  stood  and 
recited,  with  a  surprisingly  correct  and  sure  pronun- 
ciation of  difficult  words  to  show  that  she  had,  in 
fact,  received  some  training: 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently  o'er  a  perfumed  sea 

The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 

To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 

To  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo!     In  your  brilliant  window  niche, 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand! 

Ah,  Psyche  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land ! 

The  uncomprehended  marvellous  poem,  having 
startled  the  whole  room,  ceased,  and  the  rag-time 


176  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

resumed  its  sway.  A  drunken  "Bravo !"  came  from 
one  table,  a  cheer  from  another.  Young  Alice  nod- 
ded an  acknowledgment  and  sank  loosely  into  her 
chair,  exhausted  by  her  last  effort  against  the  spell 
of  champagne  and  liqueurs.  And  the  naive,  big  Ma- 
jor, bewitched  by  the  child,  subsided  into  soft  con- 
tact with  her,  and  they  almost  tearfully  embraced. 
A  waiter  sedately  replaced  a  glass  which  Alice's 
drooping,  negligent  hand  had  overturned,  and  wiped 
the  cloth.  G.  J.  was  silent.  The  whole  table  was 
silent. 

"Est-ce  de  la  grande  poesie?"  asked  Christine  of 
G.  J.,  who  did  not  reply.  Christine,  though  she  con- 
demned Alice  as  now  disgusting,  had  been  taken 
aback  and,  in  spite  of  herself,  much  impressed  by 
the  surprising  display  of  elocution. 

"Oui,"  said  Molder,  in  his  clipped,  self-conscious 
Oxford  French. 

Two  couples  from  other  tables  were  dancing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

Molder  demanded,  leaning  towards  her: 

"I  say,  do  you  dance?" 

"But  certainly,"  said  Christine.  "I  learnt  at  the 
convent."  And  she  spoke  of  her  convent  educa- 
tion, a  triumphant  subject  with  her,  though  she  had 
actually  spent  less  than  a  year  in  the  convent. 

After  a  few  moments  they  both  rose,  and  Chris- 
tine, bending  over  G.  J.,  whispered  lovingly  in  his 
ear: 

"Dear,  thou  wilt  not  be  jealous  if  I  dance  one 
turn  with  thy  young  friend?" 

She  was  addressing  the  wrong  person.     Already 


THE  CALL  177 

throughout  the  supper  Aida,  ignoring  the  fact  that 
the  whole  structure  of  civilised  society  is  based  on 
the  rule  that  at  a  meal  a  man  must  talk  first  to  the 
lady  on  his  right  and  then  to  the  lady  on  his  left 
and  so  on  infinitely,  had  secretly  taken  exception  to 
the  periodic  intercourse — and  particularly  the  inter- 
course in  French — between  Christine  and  Molder, 
who  was  officially  "hers."  That  these  two  should 
go  off  and  dance  together  was  the  supreme  insult 
to  her.  By  ill-chance  she  had  not  sufficient  physical 
command  of  herself. 

Christine  felt  that  Molder  would  have  danced 
better  two  hours  earlier;  but  still  he  danced  beau- 
tifully. Their  bodies  fitted  like  two  parts  of  a  jig- 
saw puzzle  that  have  discovered  each  other.  She 
realised  that  G.  J.  was  middle-aged,  and  regret 
tinctured  the  ecstasy  of  the  dance.  Then  suddenly 
she  heard  a  loud,  imploring  cry  in  her  ear: 

"Christine!" 

She  looked  round,  pale,  still  dancing,  but  only 
by  inertia. 

Nobody  was  near  her.  The  four  people  at  the 
Major's  table  gave  no  sign  of  agitation  or  even  of 
interest.  The  Major  still  had  Alice  more  or  less 
in  his  arms. 

"What  was  that?"  she  asked  wildly. 

"What  was  what?"  said  Molder,  at  a  loss  to 
understand  her  extraordinary  demeanour. 

And  she  heard  the  cry  again,  and  then  again: 

"Christine!    Christine!" 

She  recognised  the  voice.    It  was  the  voice  of  the 


178  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

officer  whom  she  had  taken  to  Victoria  Station  one 
Sunday  night  months  and  months  ago. 

"Excuse  me!"  she  said,  slipping  from  Molder's 
hold,  and  she  hurried  out  of  the  room  to  the  ladies' 
cloakroom,  got  her  wraps,  and  ran  past  the  watch- 
ful guardian,  through  the  dark,  dubious  portico  of 
the  club  into  the  street.  The  thing  was  done  in  a 
moment,  and  why  she  did  it  she  could  not  tell. 
She  knew  simply  that  she  must  do  it,  and  that  she 
was  under  the  dominion  of  those  unseen  powers  in 
whom  she  had  always  believed.  She  forgot  the 
Guinea  Fowl  as  completely  as  though  it  had  been  a 
pre-natal  phenomenon  with  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  SOLDIER 

BUT  outside  she  lost  faith.  Half  a  dozen  motor- 
cars were  slumbering  in  a  row  near  the  door  of  the 
Guinea  Fowl,  and  they  all  stirred  monstrously  yet 
scarcely  perceptibly  at  the  sight  of  the  woman's 
figure,  solitary,  fragile  and  pale  in  the  darkness. 
They  seemed  for  an  instant  to  lust  for  her;  and 
then,  recognising  that  she  was  not  their  prey,  to 
sink  back  into  the  torpor  of  their  inexhaustible  pa- 
tience. The  sight  of  them  was  prejudicial  to  the 
dominion  of  the  unseen  powers.  Christine  admit- 
ted to  herself  that  she  had  drunk  a  lot,  that  she  was 
demented,  that  her  only  proper  course  wfos  to  re- 
turn dutifully  to  the  supper-party.  She  wondered 
what,  if  she  did  not  so  return,  she  could  possibly  say 
to  justify  herself  to  G.  J. 

Nevertheless  she  went  on  down  the  street,  hur- 
rying, automatic,  and  reached  the  main  thorough- 
fare. It  was  dark  with  the  new  protective  darkness. 
The  central  hooded  lamps  showed  like  poor  candles, 
making  a  series  of  rings  of  feeble  illumination  on 
the  vast  invisible  floor  of  the  road.  Nobody  was 
afoot;  not  a  soul.  The  last  of  the  motor-buses  that 
went  about  killing  and  maiming  people  in  the  new 
protective  darkness  had  long  since  reached  its  yard, 

179 


180  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

The  seductive  dim  violet  bulbs  were  all  extinguished 
on  the  entrances  of  the  theatres,  and,  save  for  a 
thread  of  light  at  some  lofty  window  here  and 
there,  the  curving  facades  of  the  street  were  as  un- 
decipherable as  the  heavens  above  or  as  the  asphalte 
beneath. 

Then  Christine's  ear  detected  a  faint  roar.  It 
grew  louder;  it  became  terrific;  and  a  long  succes- 
sion of  huge  loaded  army  waggons  with  peering 
head-lamps  thundered  past  at  full  speed,  one  close 
behind  the  next,  shaking  the  very  avenue.  The 
slightest  misjudgment  by  the  leading  waggon  in  the 
confusion  of  light  and  darkness — and  the  whole 
convoy  would  have  pitched  itself  together  in  a  mass 
of  iron,  flesh,  blood  and  ordnance;  but  the  convoy 
went  ruthlessly  and  safely  forward  till  its  final  red 
tail-lamp  swung  round  a  corner  and  vanished.  The 
avenue  ceased  to  shake.  The  thunder  died  away, 
and  there  was  silence  again.  Whence  and  why  the 
convoy  came,  and  at  whose  dread  omnipotent  com- 
mand? Whither  it  was  bound?  What  it  carried? 
No  answer  in  the  darkness  to  these  enigmas!  .  .  . 
And  Christine  was  afraid  of  England.  She  remem- 
bered people  in  Ostend  saying  that  England  would 
never  go  to  war.  She,  too,  had  said  it,  bitterly. 
And  now  she  was  in  the  midst  of  the  unmeasured 
city  which  had  darkened  itself  for  war,  and  she  was 
afraid  of  an  unloosed  might.  .  .  . 

What  madness  was  she  doing?  She  did  not  even 
know  the  man's  name.  She  knew  only  that  he  was 
"Edgar  W."  She  would  have  liked  to  be  his  mar- 
raine,  according  to  the  French  custom,  but  he  had 


THE  SOLDIER  181 

never  written  to  her.  He  was  still  in  her  debt  for 
the  hotel  bill  and  the  taxi  fare.  He  had  not  even 
kissed  her  at  the  station.  She  tried  to  ^ancy  that 
she  heard  his  voice  calling  "Christine"  with  frantic 
supplication  in  her  ears,  but  she  could  not.  She 
turned  into  another  side  street,  and  saw  a  lighted 
doorway.  Two  soldiers  were  standing  in  the  veiled 
radiance.  She  could  just  read  the  lower  half  of  the 
painted  notice:  "All  service  men  welcome.  Beds. 
Meals.  Writing  and  reading  rooms.  Always  open." 
She  passed  on.  One  of  the  soldiers,  a  non-commis- 
sioned officer  of  mature  years,  solemnly  winked  at 
her,  without  moving  an  unnecessary  muscle.  She 
looked  modestly  down. 

Twenty  yards  further  on  she  descried  near  a 
lamp-post  a  tall  soldier  whose  somewhat  bent  body 
seemed  to  be  clustered  over  with  pots,  pans,  tins, 
bags,  valises,  satchels  and  weapons,  like  the  figure 
of  some  military  Father  Christmas  on  his  surrep- 
titious rounds.  She  knew  that  he  must  be  a  poor 
benighted  fellow  just  back  from  the  trenches.  He 
was  staring  up  at  the  place  where  the  street-sign 
ought  to  have  been.  He  glanced  at  her  and  said, 
in  a  fatigued,  gloomy,  aristocratic  voice: 

"Pardon  me,  Madam.  Is  this  Denman  Street? 
I  want  to  find  the  Denman  Hostel." 

Christine  looked  into  his  face.  A  sacred  dew 
suffused  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  trembled  with 
an  intimidated  joy.  She  felt  the  mystic  influences  of 
all  the  unseen  powers.  She  knew  herself  with  holy 
dread  to  be  the  chosen  of  the  very  clement  Virgin, 
and  the  channel  of  a  miraculous  intervention.  It  was 


182  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

the  most  marvellous,  sweetest  thing  that  had  ever 
happened.  It  was  humanly  incredible,  but  it  had 
happened. 

"Is  it  you?"  she  murmured  in  a  soft,  breaking 
voice. 

The  man  stooped  and  examined  her  face. 

She  said  while  he  gazed  at  her : 

"Edgar!  .  .  .  See — the  wrist  watch,"  and  held 
up  her  arm,  from  which  the  wide  sleeve  of  her 
mantle  slipped  away. 

And  the  man  said: 

"Is  it  you?" 

She  said: 

"Come  with  me.     I  will  look  after  you." 

The  man  answered  glumly: 

"I  have  no  money — at  least  not  enough  for  you. 
And  I  owe  you  a  lot  of  money  already.  You  are 
an  angel.  I'm  ashamed." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Christine  protested.  "Do 
you  forget  that  you  gave  me  a  five-pound  note?  It 
was  more  than  enough  to  pay  the  hotel.  ...  As  for 
the  rest,  let  us  not  speak  of  it.  Come  with  me." 

"Did  I?"  muttered  the  man. 

She  could  feel  the  very  clement  Virgin  smiling 
approval  of  her  fib;  it  was  exactly  such  a  fib  as  the 
Virgin  herself  would  have  told  in  a  quandary  of 
charity.  And  when  a  taxi  came  round  the  corner, 
she  knew  that  the  Virgin  disguised  as  a  taxi-driver 
was  steering  it,  and  she  hailed  it  with  a  firm  and 
yet  loving  gesture. 

The  taxi  stopped.  She  opened  the  door,  and  in 
her  sombre  mantle  and  bright  trailing  frock  and 


THE  SOLDIER  18$ 

glinting,  pale  shoes  she  got  in,  and  the  military 
Father  Christmas  with  much  difficulty  and  jingling 
and  clinking  insinuated  himself  after  her  into  the 
vehicle,  and  banged  to  the  door.  And  at  the  same 
moment  one  of  the  soldiers  from  the  Hostel  ran 
up: 

"Here,  mate!  .  .  .  What  do  you  want  to  take 
his  money  from  him  for,  you  damned  whore?" 

But  the  taxi  drove  off.  Christine  had  not  un- 
derstood. And  had  she  understood,  she  would  not 
have  cared.  She  had  a  divine  mission;  she  -was 
in  bliss. 

"You  did  not  seem  surprised  to  meet  me,"  she 
said,  taking  Edgar's  rough  hand. 

"No." 

"Had  you  called  out  my  name — 'Christine'?" 

"No." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Yes." 

"Perhaps  you  were  thinking  of  me?  I  was  think- 
ing of  you." 

"Perhaps.  I  don't  know.  But  I'm  never  sur- 
prised." 

"You  must  be  very  tired?" 

"Yes." 

"But  why  are  you  like  that?  All  these  things? 
You  are  not  an  officer  now." 

"No.  I  had  to  resign  my  commission — just  after 
I  saw  you."  He  paused,  and  added  drily:  "Whis- 
ky." His  deep  rich  voice  filled  the  taxi  with  the 
resigned  philosophy  of  fatalism. 

"And  then?" 


184  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"Of  course  I  joined  up  again  at  once,"  he  said 
casually.  "I  soon  got  out  to  the  Front.  Now  I'm 
on  leave.  That's  mere  luck." 

She  burst  into  tears.  She  was  so  touched  by  his 
curt  story,  and  by  the  grotesquerie  of  his  appearance 
in  the  faint  light  from  the  exterior  lamp  which  lit 
the  dial  of  the  taximeter,  that  she  lost  control  of  her- 
self. And  the  man  gave  a  sob,  or  possibly  it  was 
only  a  gulp  to  hide  a  sob.  And  she  leaned  against 
him  in  her  thin  garments.  And  he  clinked  and  jin- 
gled, and  his  breath  smelt  of  beer. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  RING 

THE  flat  was  in  darkness,  except  for  the  little 
lamp  by  the  bedside.  The  soldier  lay  asleep  in  his 
flannel  shirt  in  the  wide  bed,  and  Christine  lay  awake 
next  him.  His  clothes  were  heaped  on  a  chair.  His 
eighty  pounds'  weight  of  kit  were  deposited  in  a 
corner  of  the  drawing-room.  On  the  table  in  the 
drawing-room  were  the  remains  of  a  meal.  Christine 
was  thinking,  carelessly  and  without  apprehension,  of 
what  she  should  say  to  G.  J.  She  would  tell  him  that 
she  had  suddenly  felt  unwell.  No  I  That  would  be 
silly.  She  would  tell  him  that  he  really  had  not  the 
right  to  ask  her  to  meet  such  women  as  Aida  and 
Alice.  Had  he  no  respect  for  her?  Or  she  would 
tell  him  that  Aida  had  obviously  meant  to  attack 
her,  and  that  the  dance  with  Lieutenant  Molder  was 
simply  a  device  to  enable  her  to  get  away  quietly  and 
to  avoid  all  scandal  in  a  resort  where  scandal  was  in- 
tensely deprecated.  She  could  tell  him  fifty  things, 
and  he  would  have  to  accept  whatever  she  chose  to 
tell  him.  She  was  mystically  happy  in  the  incompar- 
able marvel  of  the  miracle,  and  in  her  care  of  the 
dull,  unresponding  man.  Her  heart  yearned  thank- 
fully, devotedly,  passionately  to  the  Virgin  of  the 
VII  Dolours. 

185 


186  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

In  the  profound  nocturnal  silence  broken  only  by 
the  man's  slow,  regular  breathing,  she  heard  a  sud- 
den ring.  It  was  the  front-door  bell  ringing  in  the 
kitchen.  The  bell  rang  again  and  again  obstinately. 
G.  J.'s  party  was  over,  then,  and  he  had  arrived  to 
make  inquiries.  She  smiled,  and  did  not  move.  After 
a  few  moments  she  could  hear  Marthe  stirring.  She 
sprang  up,  and  then,  cunningly  considerate,  slipped 
from  under  the  bed-clothes  as  noiselessly  and  as 
smoothly  as  a  snake,  so  that  the  man  should  not  be 
disturbed.  The  two  women  met  in  the  little  hall, 
Christine  in  the  immodesty  of  a  lacy  and  diaphanous 
garment,  and  Marthe  in  a  coarse  cotton  nightgown 
covered  with  a  shawl.  The  bell  rang  once  more, 
loudly,  close  to  their  ears. 

"Are  you  mad?"  Christine  whispered  with  fierce- 
ness. "Go  back  to  bed.  Let  him  ring." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  RETURN 

IT  was  an  afternoon  in  April,  1916.  G.  J.  rang 
the  right  bell  at  the  entrance  of  the  London  home  of 
the  Lechfords.  Lechford  House,  designed  about 
1840  by  an  Englishman  of  genius  who  in  this  rare 
instance  had  found  a  patron  with  the  wit  to  let  him 
alone,  was  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  domestic 
architecture  in  the  West  End.  Inspired  by  the  for- 
midable palaces  of  Rome  and  Florence,  the  artist 
had  conceived  a  building  in  the  style  of  the  Italian 
renaissance,  but  modified,  softened,  chastened,  civil- 
ised, to  express  the  bland  and  yet  haughty  sobriety 
of  the  English  climate  and  the  English  peerage. 
People  without  an  eye  for  the  perfect  would  have 
correctly  described  it  as  a  large  plain  house  in  grey 
stone,  of  three  storeys,  with  a  width  of  four  windows 
on  either  side  of  its  black  front  door,  a  jutting  cor- 
nice, and  rather  elaborate  chimneys.  It  was,  how- 
ever, a  masterpiece  for  the  connoisseur,  and  foreign 
architects  sometimes  came  with  cards  of  admission 
to  pry  into  it  professionally.  The  blinds  of  its  prin- 
cipal windows  were  down — not  because  of  the  war; 
they  were  often  down,  for  at  least  four  other  houses 
disputed  with  Lechford  House  the  honour  of  shel- 

187 


188  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

taring  the  Marquis  and  his  wife  and  their  sole  sur- 
viving child.  Above  the  roof  a  wire  platform  for 
the  catching  of  bombs  had  given  the  mansion  a  some- 
what ridiculous  appearance,  but  otherwise  Lechford 
House  managed  to  look  as  though  it  had  never  heard 
of  the  European  War. 

One  half  of  the  black  entrance  swung  open,  and 
a  middle-aged  gentleman  dressed  like  Lord  Lech- 
ford's  stockbroker,  but  who  was  in  reality  his  butler, 
said  in  answer  to  G.  J.'s  enquiry: 

"Lady  Queenie  is  not  at  home,  sir." 

"But  it  is  five  o'clock,"  protested  G.  J.,  suddenly 
sick  of  Queen's  impudent  unreliability.  "And  I  have 
an  appointment  with  her  at  five." 

The  butler's  face  relaxed  ever  so  little  from  its 
occupational  inhumanity  of  a  suet  pudding;  the  spirit 
of  compassion  seemed  to  inform  it  for  an  instant. 

"Her  ladyship  went  out  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago,  sir." 

"When  d'you  think  she'll  be  back?" 

The  suet  pudding  was  restored. 

"That  I  could  not  say,  sir." 

"Damn  the  girl!"  said  G.  J.  to  himself;  and 
aloud:  "Please  tell  her  ladyship  that  I've  called." 

"Mr.  Hoape,  is  it  not,  sir?" 

"It  is." 

By  the  force  of  his  raisin  eyes  the  butler  held  G.  J. 
as  he  turned  to  descend  the  steps. 

"There's  nobody  at  home,  sir,  except  Mrs.  Carlos 
Smith.  Mrs.  Carlos  Smith  is  in  Lady  Queenie's 
apartments." 

"Mrs.  Carlos  Smith!"  exclaimed  G.  J.,  who  had 


THE  RETURN  189 

not  seen  Concepcion  for  some  seventeen  months; 
nor  heard  from  her  for  nearly  as  long,  nor  heard  of 
her  since  the  previous  year. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Ask  her  if  she  can  see  me,  will  you?"  said  G.  J. 
impetuously,  after  a  slight  pause. 

He  stepped  on  to  the  tesselated  pavement  of  the 
outer  hall.  On  the  raised  tesselated  pavement  of 
the  inner  hall  stood  two  meditative  youngish  foot- 
men, possibly  musing  upon  the  problems  of  the  in- 
tensification of  the  Military  Service  Act  which  were 
then  exciting  journalists  and  statesmen.  Beyond 
was  the  renowned  staircase,  which,  rising  with  in- 
substantial grace,  lost  itself  in  silvery  altitude  like 
the  way  to  heaven.  Presently  G.  J.  was  mounting 
the  staircase  and  passing  statues  by  Canova  and 
Thorwaldsen,  and  portraits  of  which  the  heads  had 
been  painted  by  Lawrence  and  the  hands  and  drap- 
eries by  Lawrence's  hireling,  and  huger  canvases 
on  which  the  heads  and  breasts  had  been  painted  by 
Rubens  and  everything  else  by  Rubens'  regiment  of 
hirelings.  The  guiding  footman  preceded  him 
through  a  great  chamber  which  he  recognised  as  the 
drawing-room  in  its  winding  sheet,  and  then  up  a 
small  and  insignificant  staircase;  and  G.  J.  was  on 
ground  strange  to  him,  for  never  till  then  had  he 
been  higher  than  the  first-floor  in  Lechford  House. 

Lady  Queenie's  apartments  did  violence  to  G.  J.'s 
sensibilities  as  an  upholder  of  traditionalism  in  all 
the  arts,  of  the  theory  that  every  sound  movement 
in  any  art  must  derive  from  its  predecessor.  Some 
months  earlier  he  had  met  for  a  few  minutes  the 


190  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

creative  leader  of  the  newest  development  in  inter* 
nal  decoration,  and  he  vividly  remembered  a  saying 
of  the  grey-haired,  slouch-hatted  man:  "At  the  pres- 
ent day  the  only  people  in  the  world  with  really 
vital  preceptions  about  decoration  are  African  nig- 
gers, and  the  only  inspiring  productions  are  the  col- 
oured cotton  stuffs  designed  for  the  African  native 
market.  The  remark  had  amused  and  stimulated 
him,  but  he  had  never  troubled  to  go  in  search  of 
examples  of  the  inspiring  influence  of  African  taste 
on  London  domesticity.  He  now  saw  perhaps  the 
supreme  instance  lodged  in  Lechford  House,  like  a 
new  and  truculent  state  within  a  great  Empire. 

Lady  Queenie  had  imposed  terms  on  her  family, 
and  under  threats  of  rupture,  of  separation,  of  scan- 
dal, Lady  Queenie's  exotic  nest  had  come  into  ex- 
istence in  the  very  fortress  of  unchangeable  British 
convention.  The  phenomenon  was  a  war  phenom- 
enon due  to  the  war,  begotten  by  the  war;  for  Lady 
Queenie  had  said  that  if  she  was  to  do  war-work 
without  disaster  to  her  sanity  she  must  have  the 
right  environment.  Thus  the  putting  together  of 
Lady  Queenie's  nest  had  proceeded  concurrently  with 
the  building  of  national  projectile  factories  and  of 
square  miles  of  offices  for  the  girl  clerks  of  ministries 
and  departments  of  government. 

The  footman  left  G.  J.  alone  in  a  room  desig- 
nated the  boudoir.  G.  J.  resented  the  boudoir, 
because  it  was  like  nothing  that  he  had  ever  wit- 
nessed. The  walls  were  irregularly  covered  with 
rhombuses,  rhomboids,  lozenges,  diamonds,  tri- 
angles, and  parallelograms;  the  carpet  was  treated 


THE  RETURN  191 

likewise,  and  also  the  upholstery  and  the  cushions. 
The  colourings  of  the  scene  in  their  excessive  bright- 
ness, crudity  and  variety  surpassed  G.  J.'s  conception 
of  the  possible.  He  had  learned  the  value  of  colour 
before  Queen  was  born,  and  in  the  Albany  had 
translated  principle  into  practice.  But  the  hues  of 
the  boudoir  made  the  gaudiest  effects  of  Regency 
furniture  appear  sombre.  The  place  resembled  a 
gigantic  and  glittering  kaleidoscope  deranged  and 
arrested. 

G.  J.'s  glance  ran  round  the  room  like  a  hunted 
animal  seeking  escape,  and  found  no  escape.  He 
was  as  disturbed  as  he  might  have  been  disturbed 
by  drinking  a  liqueur  on  the  top  of  a  cocktail.  Never- 
theless he  had  to  admit  that  some  of  the  contrasts 
of  pure  colour  were  rather  beautiful,  even  impress- 
ive; and  he  hated  to  admit  it.  He  was  aware  of  a 
terrible  apprehension  that  he  would  never  be  the 
same  man  again,  and  that  henceforth  his  own  abode 
would  be  eternally  stricken  for  him  with  the  curse 
of  insipidity.  Regaining  somewhat  his  nerve,  he 
looked  for  pictures.  There  were  no  pictures.  But 
every  piece  of  furniture  was  painted  with  primitive 
sketches  of  human  figures,  or  of  flowers,  or  of 
vessels,  or  of  animals.  On  the  front  of  the  mantel- 
piece were  perversely  but  brilliantly  depicted,  with 
a  high  degree  of  finish,  two  nude,  crouching  women 
who  gazed  longingly  at  each  other  across  the  impass- 
able semicircular  abyss  of  the  fireplace;  and  just 
above  their  heads,  on  a  scroll,  ran  these  words : 

"The  ways  of  God  are  strange." 

He  heard  movements  and  a  slight  cough  in  the 


192  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

next  room,  the  door  leading  to  which  was  ajar. 
Concepcion's  cough;  he  thought  he  recognised  it. 
Five  minutes  ago  he  had  had  no  notion  of  seeing 
her;  now  he  was  about  to  see  her.  And  he  felt  ex- 
cited and  troubled,  as  much  by  the  sudden  violence 
of  life  as  by  the  mere  prospect  of  the  meeting. 

After  her  husband's  death  Concepcion  had  soon 
withdrawn  from  London.  A  large  engineering  firm 
on  the  Clyde,  one  of  the  heads  of  which  happened 
to  be  constitutionally  a  pioneer,  was  establishing  a 
canteen  for  its  workmen,  and  Concepcion,  the  ten- 
tacles of  whose  influence  would  stretch  to  any  length, 
had  decided  that  she  ought  to  take  up  canteen  work, 
and  in  particular  the  canteen  work  of  just  that  firm. 
But  first  of  all,  to  strengthen  her  prestige  and  to  ac- 
quire new  prestige,  she  had  gone  to  the  United 
States,  with  a  powerful  introduction  to  Sears,  Roe- 
buck and  Company  of  Chicago,  in  order  to  study 
industrial  canteenism  in  its  most  advanced  and  in- 
tricate  manifestations.  Portraits  of  Concepcion  in 
splendid  furs  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  in  the  act 
of  preparing  to  study  industrial  canteenism  in  its 
most  advanced  and  intricate  manifestations  had 
appeared  in  the  illustrated  weeklies.  The  luxurious 
trip  had  cost  several  hundreds  of  pounds,  but  it  was 
war  expenditure,  and,  moreover,  Concepcion  had 
come  into  considerable  sums  of  money  through  her 
deceased  husband.  Her  return  to  Britain  had  never 
been  published.  Advertisements  of  Concepcion  had 
ceased.  Only  a  few  friends  knew  that  she  was  in 
the  most  active  retirement  on  the  Clyde.  G.  J.  had 
written  to  her  twice  but  had  obtained  no  replies. 


THE  RETURN  193 

One  fact  he  knew,  that  she  had  not  had  a  child. 
Lady  Queenie  had  not  mentioned  her;  it  was  under- 
stood that  the  inseparables  had  quarreled  in  the 
heroic  manner  and  separated  for  ever. 

She  entered  the  boudoir  slowly.  G.  J.  grew  self- 
conscious,  as  it  were  because  she  was  still  the  martyr 
of  destiny  and  he  was  not.  She  wore  a  lavender- 
tinted  gown  of  Queen's;  he  knew  it  was  Queen's 
because  he  had  seen  precisely  such  a  gown  on  Queen, 
and  there  could  not  possibly  be  another  gown  pre- 
cisely like  that  very  challenging  gown.  It  suited 
Queen,  but  it  did  not  suit  Concepcion.  She  looked 
older;  she  was  thirty-two,  and  might  have  been 
taken  for  thirty-five.  She  was  very  pale,  with  im- 
mense fatigued  eyes;  but  her  ridiculous  nose  had 
preserved  all  its  originality.  And  she  had  the  same 
slightly  masculine  air — perhaps  somewhat  intensified 
— with  an  added  dignity.  And  G.  J.  thought:  "She 
is  as  mysterious  and  unfathomable  as  I  am  myself." 
And  he  was  impressed  and  perturbed. 

With  a  faint,  sardonic  smile,  glancing  at  him  as 
a  physical  equal  from  her  unusual  height  (she  was 
as  tall  as  Lady  Queenie),  she  said  abruptly  and 
casually : 

"Am  I  changed?" 

"No,"  he  replied  as  abruptly  and  casually,  clasping 
almost  inimically  her  ringed  hand — she  was  wearing 
Queenie's  rings.  "But  you're  tired.  The  journey, 
I  suppose." 

"It's  not  that.  We  sat  up  till  five  o'clock  this 
morning,  talking." 

"Who?" 


194  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"Queen  and  I." 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?" 

"Well,  you  see,  we'd  had  the  devil's  own 

row "  She  stopped,  leaving  his  imagination  to 

complete  the  picture  of  the  meeting  and  the  night 
talk. 

He  smiled  awkwardly — tried  to  be  paternal,  and 
failed. 

"What  about?" 

"She  never  wanted  me  to  leave  London.  I  came 
back  last  night  with  only  a  handbag  just  as  she  was 
going  out  to  dinner.  She  didn't  go  out  to  dinner. 
Queen  is  a  white  woman.  Nobody  knows  how 
white  Queen  is.  I  didn't  know  myself  until  last 
night." 

There  was  a  pause.     G.  J.  said: 

"I  had  an  appointment  here  with  the  white  wo- 
man, on  business." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Concepcion  negligently. 
"She'll  be  home  soon." 

Something  infinitesimally  malicious  in  the  voice 
and  gaze  sent  the  singular  idea  shooting  through  his 
mind  that  Queen  had  gone  out  on  purpose  so  that 
Concepcion  might  have  him  alone  for  a  while.  And 
he  was  wary  of  both  of  them,  as  he  might  have  been 
of  two  pagan  goddesses  whom  he,  a  poor  defiant 
mortal,  suspected  of  having  laid  an  eye  on  him  for 
their  own  ends. 

"You've,  changed,  anyhow,"  said  Concepcion. 

"Older?" 

"No.     Harder." 

He  was  startled,  not  displeased. 


THE  RETURN  195 

"How— harder?" 

"More  sure  of  yourself,"  said  Concepcion,  with 
a  trace  of  the  old  harsh  egotism  in  her  tone.  "It 
appears  you're  a  perfect  tyrant  on  the  Lechford 
Committee  now  you're  vice-chairman,  and  all  the 
more  footling  members  dread  the  days  when  you're 
in  the  chair.  It  appears  also  that  you've  really 
overthrown  two  chairmen,  and  yet  won't  take  the 
situation  yourself." 

He  was  still  more  startled,  but  now  positively 
flattered  by  the  world's  estimate  of  his  activities  and 
individuality.  He  saw  himself  in  a  new  light. 

"This  what  you  were  talking  about  until  five 
a.m?" 

The  butler  entered. 

"Shall  I  serve  tea,  madam?" 

Concepcion  looked  at  the  man  scornfully: 

"Yes." 

One  of  the  minor  stalwarts  entered  and  arranged 
a  table,  and  the  other  followed  with  a  glittering, 
steaming  tray  in  his  hands,  while  the  butler  hovered 
like  a  winged  hippopotamus  over  the  operation.  Con- 
cepcion half  sat  down  by  the  table,  and  then,  alter- 
ing her  mind,  dropped  on  to  a  vast  chaise-longue, 
as  wide  as  a  bed,  and  covered  with  as  many  cushions 
as  would  have  stocked  a  cushion  shop,  which  occu- 
pied the  principal  place  in  front  of  the  hearth.  The 
hem  of  her  rich  gown  just  touched  the  floor.  G.  J. 
could  see  that  she  was  wearing  the  transparent  deep- 
purple  stockings  that  Queen  wore  with  the  trans- 
parent lavender  gown.  Her  right  shoulder  rose 
high  from  the  mass  of  the  body,  and  her  head  was 


196  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

sunk  between  two  cushions.  Her  voice  came  smoth- 
ered from  the  cushions : 

"Damn  it,  G.  T. !     Don't  look  at  me  like  that." 

He  was  standing  near  the  mantelpiece. 

"Why?"  he  exclaimed.  "What's  the  matter, 
Con?" 

There  was  no  answer.  He  lit  a  cigarette.  The 
ebullient  kettle  kept  lifting  its  lid  in  growing  im- 
patience. But  Concepcion  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  tea.  G.  J.  had  a  thought,  distinct  like  a  bubble 
on  a  sea  of  thoughts,  that  if  the  tea  was  already 
made,  as  no  doubt  it  was,  it  would  soon  be  stewed. 
Concepcion  said: 

"The  matter  is  that  I'm  a  ruined  woman,  and 
Queen  can't  understand." 

And  in  the  bewildering  voluptuous  brightness  and 
luxury  of  the  room  G.  J.  had  the  sensation  of  being 
a  poor,  baffled  ghost  groping  in  the  night  of  exis- 
tence. Concepcion's  left  arm  slipped  over  the  edge 
of  the  day-bed  and  hung  limp  and  pale,  the  curved 
fingers  touching  the  carpet 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  CLYDE 

SHE  was  sitting  up  on  the  chaise-longue  and  had 
poured  out  the  tea — he  had  pushed  the  tea-table 
towards  the  chaise-longue — and  she  was  talking  in 
an  ordinary  tone  just  as  though  she  had  not  im- 
modestly bared  her  spirit  to  him  and  as  though  she 
knew  not  that  he  realised  she  had  done  so.  She  was 
talking  at  length,  as  one  who  in  the  past  had  been 
well  accustomed  to  giving  monologues  and  to  holding 
drawing-rooms  in  subjection  while  she  chattered,  and 
to  making  drawing-rooms  feel  glad  that  they  had 
consented  to  subjection.  She  was  saying: 

"You've  no  idea  what  the  valley  of  the  Clyde  is 
now.  You  can't  have.  It's  filled  with  girls,  and 
they  come  into  it  every  morning  by  train  to  huge 
stations  specially  built  for  them,  and  they  make  the 
most  ghastly  things  for  killing  other  girls'  lovers  all 
day,  and  they  go  back  by  train  at  night.  Only  some 
of  them  work  all  night.  I  had  to  leave  my  own 
works  to  organise  the  canteen  of  a  new  filling  fac- 
tory. Five  thousand  girls  in  that  factory.  It's 
frightfully  dangerous.  They  have  to  wear  special 
clothing.  They  have  to  take  off  every  stitch  from 
their  bodies  in  one  room,  and  run  in  their  innocence 
and  nothing  else  to  another  room  where  the  special 

197 


198  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

clothing  is.  That's  the  only  way  to  prevent  the 
whole  place  being  blown  up  one  beautiful  day.  But 
five  thousand  of  them !  You  can't  imagine  it.  You'd 
like  to,  G.  J.,  but  you  can't.  However,  I  didn't  stay 
there  very  long.  I  wanted  to  go  back  to  my  own 
place.  I  was  adored  at  my  own  place.  Of  course 
the  men  adored  me.  They  used  to  fight  about  me 
sometimes.  Terrific  men.  Nothing  ever  made  me 
happier  than  that,  or  so  happy.  But  the  girls  were 
more  interesting.  Two  thousand  of  them  there. 
You'd  never  guess  it,  because  they  were  hidden  in 
thickets  of  machinery.  But  see  them  rush  out  end- 
lessly to  the  canteen  for  tea !  All  sorts.  Lots  of 
devils  and  cats.  Some  lovely  creatures,  heavenly 
creatures,  as  fine  as  a  queen.  They  adored  me  too. 
They  didn't  at  first,  some  of  them.  But  they  soou 
tumbled  to  it  that  I  was  the  modern  woman,  and 
that  they'd  never  seen  me  before,  and  it  was  a  great 
discovery.  Absurdly  easy  to  raise  yourself  to 
be  the  idol  of  a  crowd  that  fancies  itself  canny! 
Incredibly  easy!  I  used  to  take  their  part  against 
the  works-manager  as  often  as  I  could;  he  was  a 
fiend;  he  hated  me;  but  then  I  was  a  fiend,  too,  and 
I  hated  him  more.  I  used  often  to  come  on  at  six 
in  the  morning,  when  they  did,  and  'sign  on.'  It 
isn't  really  signing  on  now  at  all;  there's  a  clock  dial 
and  a  whole  machine  for  catching  you  out.  They 
loved  to  see  me  doing  that.  And  I  worked  the 
lathes  sometimes,  just  for  a  bit,  just  to  show  that  I 
wasn't  ashamed  to  work.  Etc.  .  .  .  All  that  sen- 
timental twaddle.  It  pleased  them.  And  if  any 
really  vigorous-minded  girl  had  dared  to  say  it  was 


THE  CLYDE  199 

sentimental  twaddle,  there  would  have  been  a  cruci- 
fixion or  something  of  the  sort  in  the  cloakrooms. 
The  mob's  always  the  same.  But  what  pleased  them 
far  more  than  anything  was  me  knowing  them  by 
their  Christian  names.  Not  all,  of  course;  still, 
hundreds  of  them.  Marvellous  feats  of  memorising 
I  did!  I  used  to  go  about  muttering  under  my 
breath :  'Winnie,  wart  on  left  hand,  Winnie,  wart  on 
left  hand,  wart  on  left  hand,  Winnie.'  You  see? 
And  I've  sworn  at  them — not  often ;  it  wouldn't  do, 
naturally.  But  there  was  scarcely  a  woman  there 
that  I  couldn't  simply  blast  in  two  seconds  if  I  felt 
like  it.  On  the  other  hand,  I  assure  you  I  could  be 
very  tender.  I  was  surprised  how  tender  I  could 
be,  now  and  then,  in  my  little  office.  They'd  tell 
me  anything — sounds  sentimental,  but  they  would — 
and  some  of  them  had  no  more  notion  that  there's 
such  a  thing  on  earth  as  propriety  than  a  monkey  has. 
I  thought  I  knew  everything  before  I  went  to  the 
Clyde  valley.  Well,  I  didn't."  Concepcion  looked 
at  G.  J.  "You  know  you're  very  innocent,  G.  J., 
compared  to  me." 

"I  should  hope  so!"  said  G.  J.,  impenetrably. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  all?"  she  demanded  in  a 
fresh  tone,  leaning  a  little  towards  him. 

He  replied: 

"I'm  impressed." 

He  was,  in  fact,  very  profoundly  impressed;  but 
he  had  to  illustrate  the  hardness  in  himself  which 
she  had  revealed  to  him.  (He  wondered  whether 
the  members  of  the  Lechford  Committee  really  did 
credit  him  with  having  dethroned  a  couple  of  chair- 


200  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

men.  The  idea  was  new  to  his  modesty.  Perhaps 
he  had  been  under-estimating  his  own  weight  on  the 
committee.  No  doubt  he  had.)  All  constraint  was 
now  dissipated  between  Conception  and  himself. 
They  were  behaving  to  each  other  as  though  their  in- 
timacy had  never  been  interrupted  for  a  single  week. 
She  amazed  him,  sitting  there  in  the  purple  stockings 
and  the  affronting  gown,  and  he  admired.  Her  ma- 
terial achievement  alone  was  prodigious.  He  pic- 
tured her  as  she  rose  in  the  winter  dark  and  in  the 
summer  dawn  to  go  to  the  works  and  wrestle  with  so 
much  incalculable  human  nature  and  so  many  com- 
plex questions  of  organisation,  day  after  day,  week 
after  week,  month  after  month,  for  nearly  eighteen 
months.  She  had  kept  it  up;  that  was  the  point. 
She  had  shown  what  she  was  made  of,  and  what  she 
was  made  of  was  unquestionably  marvellous. 

He  would  have  liked  to  know  about  various  things 
to  which  she  had  made  no  reference.  Did  she  live 
in  a  frowsy  lodging  house  near  the  great  works? 
What  kind  of  food  did  she  get?  What  did  she  do 
with  her  evenings  and  her  Sundays?  Was  she 
bored?  Was  she  miserable  or  exultant?  Had  she 
acquaintances,  external  interests ;  or  did  she  immerse 
herself  completely,  inclusively,  in  the  huge,  smoking, 
whirring,  foul,  perilous  hell  which  she  had  described? 
The  contemplation  of  the  horror  of  the  hell  gave 
him — and  her,  too,  he  thought — a  curious  feeling 
which  was  not  unpleasurable.  It  had  savour.  He 
would  not,  however,  inquire  from  her  concerning  de- 
tails. He  preferred,  on  reflection,  to  keep  the  de- 
tails mysterious,  as  mysterious  as  her  individuality 


THE  CLYDE  201 

and  as  the  impression  of  her  worn  eyes.  The  setting 
of  mystery  in  his  mind  suited  her. 

He  said: 

"But  of  course  your  relations  with  those  girls  were 
artificial,  after  all." 

"No,  they  weren't.  I  tell  you  the  girls  were  per- 
fectly open;  there  wasn't  the  slightest  artificiality." 

"Yes,  but  were  you  open,  to  them?  Did  you  ever 
tell  them  anything  a"bout  yourself,  for  instance?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Did  they  ever  ask  you  to?" 

"No !     They  wouldn't  have  thought  of  doing  so." 

"That's  what  I  call  artificiality.  By  the  way,  how 
have  you  been  ruined?  Who  ruined  you?  Was  it 
the  hated  works-manager?"  There  had  been  no 
change  in  his  tone ;  he  spoke  with  the  utmost  detach- 
ment. 

"I  was  coming  to  that,"  answered  Concepcion, 
apparently  with  a  detachment  equal  to  his.  "Last 
week  but  one  in  one  of  the  shops  there  was  a  girl 
standing  in  front  of  a  machine,  with  her  back  to  it. 
About  22 — you  must  see  her  in  your  mind — about 
22,  nice  chestnut  hair.  Cap  over  it,  of  course — 
that's  the  rule.  Khaki  overalls  and  trousers.  Rather 
high-heeled  patent-leather  boots — they  fancy  them- 
selves, thank  God ! — and  a  bit  of  lace  showing  out  of 
the  khaki  at  the  neck.  Red  cheeks;  she  was  fairly 
new  to  the  works.  Do  you  see  her?  She  meant  to 
be  one  of  the  devils.  Earning  two  pounds  a  week 
nearly,  and  eagerly  spending  it  all.  Fully  awake  to 
all  the  possibilities  of  her  body.  I  was  in  the  shop. 
I  said  something  to  her,  and  she  didn't  hear  at  first — 


202  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

the  noise  of  some  of  the  shops  is  shattering.  I  went 
close  to  her  and  repeated  it.  She  laughed  out  of 
mere  vivacity,  and  threw  back  her  head  as  people 
do  when  they  laugh.  The  machine  behind  her  must 
have  caught  some  hair  that  wasn't  under  her  cap. 
All  her  hair  was  dragged  from  under  the  cap,  and 
in  no  time  all  her  hair  was  torn  out  and  the  whole  of 
her  scalp  ripped  clean  off.  In  a  second  or  two  I 
got  her  on  to  a  trolley — I  did  it — and  threw  an  over- 
all over  her  and  ran  her  to  the  dressing-station,  close 
to  the  main  office  entrance.  There  was  a  car  there. 
One  of  the  directors  was  just  driving  off.  I  stopped 
him.  It  wasn't  a  case  for  our  dressing-station.  In 
three  minutes  I  had  her  at  the  hospital — three 
minutes.  The  car  was  soaked  in  blood.  But  she 
didn't  lose  consciousness;  that  child  didn't.  She's 
dead  now.  She's  buried.  Her  body  that  she  meant 
to  use  so  profusely  for  her  own  delights  is  squeezed 
up  in  the  little  black  box  in  the  dark  and  the  silence, 
down  below  where  the  spring  can't  get  at  it.  ... 
I  had  no  sleep  for  two  nights.  On  the  second  day  a 
doctor  at  the  hospital  said  that  I  must  take  at  least 
three  months'  holiday.  He  said  I'd  had  a  nervous 
breakdown.  I  didn't  know  I  had,  and  I  don't  know 
now.  I  said  I  wouldn't  take  any  holiday,  and  that 
nothing  would  induce  me  to." 

"Why,  Con?" 

"Because  I'd  sworn,  absolutely  sworn  to  myself, 
to  stick  that  job  till  the  war  was  over.  You 
understand,  I'd  sworn  it.  Well,  they  wouldn't  let 
me  on  to  the  works.  And  yesterday  one  of  the 
directors  brought  me  up  to  town  himself.  He  was 


THE  CLYDE  203 

very  kind,  in  his  Clyde  way.  Now  you  understand 
what  I  mean  when  I  say  I'm  ruined.  I'm  ruined 
with  myself,  you  see.  I  didn't  stick  it.  I  couldn't. 
But  there  were  twenty  or  thirty  girls  who  saw  the 
accident.  They're  sticking  it." 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  a  voice  soft  and  moved,  "I  un- 
derstand." And  while  he  spoke  thus  aloud,  though 
his  emotion  was  genuine,  and  his  desire  to  comfort 
and  sustain  her  genuine,  and  his  admiration  for  her 
genuine,  he  thought  to  himself:  "How  theatrically 
she  told  it!  Every  effect  was  studied,  nearly  every 
word.  Well,  she  can't  help  it.  But  does  she  imag- 
ine I  can't  see  that  all  the  casualness  was  deliberately 
part  of  the  effect?" 

She  lit*  a  cigarette  and  leaned  her  half-draped 
elbows  on  the  tea-table,  and  curved  her  ringed 
fingers,  which  had  withstood  time  and  fatigue  much 
better  than  her  face ;  and  then  she  reclined  again  on 
the  chaise-longue,  on  her  back,  and  sent  up  smoke 
perpendicularly,  and  through  the  smoke  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  decipher  the  enigmas  of  the  ceiling. 
G.  J.  rose  and  stood  over  her  in  silence.  At  last 
she  went  on : 

"The  work  those  girls  do  is  excruciating,  hellish, 
and  they  don't  realise  it.  That's  the  worst  of  it. 
They'll  never  be  the  same  again.  They're  ruining 
their  health,  and,  what's  more  important,  their 
looks.  You  can  see  them  changing  under  your  eyes. 
Ours  was  the  best  factory  on  the  Clyde,  and  the  con- 
ditions were  unspeakable,  in  spite  of  canteens,  and 
rest-rooms,  and  libraries,  and  sanitation,  and  all  this 
damned  'welfare.'  Fancy  a  girl  chained  up  for 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

twelve  hours  every  day  to  a  thundering,  whizzing, 
iron  machine  that  never  gets  tired.  The  machine's 
just  as  fresh  at  six  o'clock  at  night  as  it  was  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  just  as  anxious  to  maim 
her  if  she  doesn't  look  out  for  herself — more 
anxious.  The  whole  thing's  still  going  on;  they're 
at  it  now,  this  very  minute.  You're  interested  in  a 
factory,  aren't  you,  G.  J.?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  gently,  but  looked  with  seem- 
ingly callous  firmness  down  at  her. 

"The  Reveille  Company,  or  some  such  name." 

"Yes." 

"Making  tons  of  money,  I  hear." 

"Yes." 

"You're  a  profiteer,  G.  J." 

"I'm  not.  Long  since  I  decided  I  must  give  away 
all  my  extra  profits." 

"Ever  go  and  look  at  your  factory?" 

"No." 

"Any  nice'young  girls  working  there?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"If  there  are,  are  they  decently  treated?" 

"Don't  know  that,  either." 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  see?" 

"It's  no  business  of  mine." 

"Yes  it  is.  Aren't  you  making  yourself  glorious 
as  a  philanthropist  out  of  the  thing?" 

"I  tell  you  it's  no  business  of  mine,"  he  insisted 
evenly.  "I  couldn't  do  anything  if  I  went.  I've  no 
status." 

"Rotten  system." 

"Possibly.     But  systems  can't  be  altered  like  that. 


THE  CLYDE 

Systems  alter  themselves,  and  they  aren't  in  a  hurry 
about  it.  This  system  isn't  new,  though  it's  new  to 
you." 

"You  people  in  London  don't  know  what  work 
is." 

"And  what  about  your  Clyde  strikes?"  G.  J. 
retorted. 

"Well,  all  that's  settled  now,"  said  Concepcion 
rather  uneasily,  like  a  champion  who  foresees  a  fight 
but  lacks  confidence. 

"Yes,  but "  G.  J.  suddenly  altered  his  tone 

to  the  persuasive:  "You  must  know  all  about  those 
strikes.  What  was  the  real  cause?  We  don't 
understand  them  here." 

"If  you  really  want  to  know — nerves,"  she  said 
earnestly  and  triumphantly. 

"Nerves?" 

"Overwork.  No  rest.  No  change.  Everlast- 
ing punishment.  The  one  incomprehensible  thing 
to  me  is  that  the  whole  of  Glasgow  didn't  go  on 
strike  and  stay  out  for  ever." 

"There's  just  as  much  overwork  in  London  as 
there  is  on  the  Clyde." 

"There's  a  lot  more  talking — Parliament,  Cabi- 
net, Committees.  You  should  hear  what  they  say 
about  it  in  Glasgow." 

"Con,"  he  said  kindly,  "you  don't  suspect  it,  but 
you're  childish.  It's  the  job  of  one  part  of  London 
to  talk.  If  that  part  of  London  didn't  talk  your 
tribes  on  the  Clyde  couldn't  work,  because  they 
wouldn't  know  what  to  do,  nor  how  to  do  it.  Talk- 
ing has  to  come  before  working,  and  let  me  tell  you 


206  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

it's  more  difficult,  and  it's  more  killing,  because  it's 
more  responsible.  Excuse  this  commonsense  made 
easy  for  beginners,  but  you  brought  it  on  yourself." 

She  frowned. 

"And  what  do  you  do?  Do  you  talk  or  work?" 
She  smiled. 

"I'll  tell  you  this !"  said  he,  smiling  candidly  and 
benevolently.  "It  took  me  a  dickens  of  a  time  really 
to  put  myself  into  anything  that  meant  steady  effort. 
I'd  lost  the  habit.  Natural  enough,  and  I'm  not 
going  into  sackcloth  about  it.  However,  I'm  im- 
proving. I'm  going  to  take  on  the  secretaryship  of, 
the  Lechford  Committee.  Some  of  'em  mayn't  want 
me,  but  they'll  have  to  have  me.  And  when  they've 
got  me  they'll  have  to  look  out.  All  of  them,  in- 
cluding Queen  and  her  mother." 

"Will  it  take  the  whole  of  your  time?" 

"It  will.     I'm  doing  over  three   days   a   week 


now." 


"I  suppose  you  think  you've  beaten  me." 
"Con,  I  do  ask  you  not  to  be  a  child." 
"But  I  am  a  child.     Why  don't  you  humour  me? 
You  know  I've  had  a  nervous  breakdown.     You 
used  to  humour  me." 
He  shook  his  head. 

"Humouring  you  won't  do  your  nervous  break- 
down any  good.  It  might  some  women's — but  not 
yours." 

"You  shall  humour  me!"  she  cried.  "I  haven't 
told  you  half  my  ruin.  Do  you  know  I  meant  to 
love  Carly  all  my  life.  I  felt  sure  I  should.  Well, 
I  can't!  It's  gone,  all  that  feeling — already!  In 


THE  CLYDE  207 

less  than  two  years!  And  now  I'm  only  sorry  for 
him  and  sorry  for  myself.  Isn't  it  horrible?  Isn't 
it  horrible?" 

"Try  not  to  think,"  he  murmured. 

She  sat  up  impetuously. 

"Don't  talk  such  damned  nonsense !  'Try  not  to 
think' !  Why,  my  frightful  unhappiness  is  the  one 
thing  that  keeps  me  alive." 

"Yes,"  G.  J.  yielded.     "It  was  nonsense." 

She  sank  back.  He  saw  moisture  in  her  eyes  and 
felt  it  in  his  own. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SALOME 

LADY  QUEENIE  arrived  in  haste,  as  though  re- 
lentless time  had  pursued  her  up  the  stairs. 

"Why,  you're  in  the  dark  here!"  she  exclaimed 
impatiently,  and  impatiently  switched  on  several 
lights.  "Sorry  I'm  late,  G.  J.,"  she  said  perfunctor- 
ily, without  taking  any  trouble  to  put  conviction  into 
her  voice.  "How  have  you  two  been  getting  on?" 

She  looked  at  Concepcion  and  G.  J.  in  a  peculiar 
way,  inquisitorial  and  implicatory. 

Then,  towards  the  door: 

"Come  in,  come  in,  Dialin." 

A  young  soldier  with  the  stripe  of  a  lance-corporal 
entered,  slightly  nervous  and  slightly  defiant. 

"And  you,  Miss  I-forget-your-name." 

A  young  woman  entered;  she  had  very  red  lips 
and  very  high  heels,  and  was  both  more  nervous  and 
more  defiant  than  the  young  soldier. 

"This  is  Mr.  Dialin,  you  know,  Con,  second  ballet- 
master  at  the  Ottoman.  I  met  him  by  sheer  mar- 
vellous chance.  He's  only  got  ten  minutes;  he  hasn't 
really  got  that;  but  he's  going  to  see  me  do  my 
Salome  dance." 

Lady  Queenie  made  no  attempt  to  introduce  Miss 
I-forget-your-name,  who  of  her  own  accord  took  a 

208 


SALOME  209 

chair  with  a  curious,  dashed  effrontery.  It  ap- 
peared that  she  was  attached  to  Mr.  Dialin.  Lady 
Queenie  cast  off  rapidly  gloves,  hat  and  coat,  and 
then,  having  rushed  to  the  bell  and  rung  it  fiercely 
several  times,  came  back  to  the  chaise-longue  and 
gazed  at  it  and  at  the  surrounding  floor. 

"Would  you  mind,  Con?" 

Concepcion  rose.  Lady  Queenie,  rushing  off 
again,  pushed  several  more  switches,  and  from  a 
thick  cluster  of  bulbs  in  front  of  a  large  mirror  at 
the  end  of  the  room  there  fell  dazzling  sheets  of 
light.  A  footman  presented  himself. 

"Push  the  day-bed  right  away  towards  the  win- 
dow," she  commanded. 

The  footman  inclined  and  obeyed,  and  the  lance- 
corporal  superiorly  helped  him.  Then  the  footman 
was  told  to  energise  the  gramophone,  which  in  its 
specially  designed  case  stood  in  a  corner.  The  foot- 
man seemed  to  be  on  intimate  terms  with  the  gram- 
ophone. Meanwhile  Lady  Queenie,  with  a  safety- 
pin,  was  fastening  the  back  hem  of  her  short  skirt 
to  the  front  between  the  knees.  Still  bending,  she 
took  her  shoes  off.  Her  scent  impregnated  the 
room. 

"You  see,  it  will  be  barefoot,"  she  explained  to 
Mr.  Dialin. 

The  walls  of  London  were  already  billed  with  an 
early  announcement  of  the  marvels  of  the  Pageant  of 
Terpsichore,  which  was  to  occur  at  the  Albert  Hall, 
under  the  superintendence  of  the  greatest  modern 
English  painters,  in  aid  of  a  fund  for  soldiers  dis- 
abled by  deafness.  The  performers  were  all  ladies 


•210  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

of  the  upper  world,  ladies  bearing  names  for  the 
most  part  as  familiar  as  the  names  of  streets — and 
not  a  stage-star  among  them.  Amateurism  was  to 
be  absolutely  untainted  by  professionalism  in  the 
prodigious  affair;  therefore  the  prices  of  tickets  ruled 
high,  and  queens  had  conferred  their  patronage. 

Lady  Queenie  removed  several  bracelets  and  a 
necklace,  and,  seizing  a  plate,  deposited  it  on  the 
carpet. 

"That  piece  of  bread-and-butter,"  she  said,  "is 
the  head  of  my  beloved  John." 

The  clever  footman  started  the  gramophone,  and 
Lady  Queenie  began  to  dance.  The  lance-corporal 
walked  round  her,  surveying  her  at  all  angles,  watch- 
ing her  like  a  tiger,  imitating  movements,  suggesting 
movements,  sketching  emotions  with  his  arm,  raising 
himself  at  intervals  on  the  toes  of  his  thick  boots. 
After  a  few  moments  Concepcion  glanced  at  G.  J., 
conveying  to  him  a  passionate,  adoring  admiration 
of  Queen's  talent. 

G.  J.,  startled  by  her  brightened  eyes  so  suddenly 
full  of  temperament,  nodded  to  please  her.  But  the 
fact  was  that  he  saw  naught  to  admire  in  the  beau- 
tiful and  brazen  amateur's  performance.  He  won- 
dered that  she  could  not  have  discovered  something 
more  original  than  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  Maud 
Allan  in  a  scene  which  years  ago  had  become  stale. 
He  wondered  that,  at  any  rate,  Concepcion  should 
not  perceive  the  poor,  pretentious  quality  of  the  girl- 
ish exhibition.  And  as  he  looked  at  the  mincing 
Dialin  he  pictured  the  lance-corporal  helping  to  serve 
a  gun.  And  as  he  looked  at  the  youthful,  lithe 


SALOME 

Queenie  posturing  in  the  shower-bath  of  rays  amid 
the  blazing  chromatic  fantasy  of  the  room,  and  his 
nostrils  twitched  to  her  pungent  perfume,  he  pictured 
the  reverberating  shell-factory  on  the  Clyde  where 
girls  had  their  scalps  torn  off  by  unappeasable  ma- 
chinery, and  the  filling-factory  where  five  thousand 
girls  stripped  themselves  naked  in  order  to  lessen  the 
danger  of  being  blown  to  bits.  .  .  .  After  a  cli- 
max of  capering  Queen  fell  full  length  on  her 
stomach  upon  the  carpet,  her  soft  chin  accurately 
adjusted  to  the  edge  of  the  plate.  The  music  ceased. 
The  gramophone  gnashed  on  the  disc  until  the  foot- 
man lifted  its  fang. 

Miss  I-forget-your-name  raised  both  her  feet 
from  the  floor,  stuck  her  legs  out  in  a  straight,  slant- 
ing line,  and  condescendingly  clapped.  Then,  seeing 
that  Queen  was  worrying  the  piece  of  bread-and- 
butter  with  her  teeth,  she  exclaimed  in  agitation : 

"Owmy!" 

Mr.  Dialin  assisted  the  breathless  Queen  to  rise, 
and  they  went  off  into  a  corner  and  he  talked  to 
her  in  low  tones.  Soon  he  looked  at  his  wrist-watch 
and  caught  the  summoning  eye  of  Miss  I-forget- 
your-name. 

"But  it's  pretty  all  right,  isn't  it?"  said  Queen. 

"Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes!"  he  soothed  her  with  an 
expert's  casualness.  "Naturally,  you  want  to  work 
it  up.  You  fell  beautifully.  Now  you  go  and  see 
Crevelli — he's  the  man." 

"I  shall  get  him  to  come  here.  What's  his  ad- 
dress?" 

"I  don't  know.     He's  just  moved.     But  you'll 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

see  it  in  the  April  number  of  The  Dancing  Times" 

As  the  footman  was  about  to  escort  Mr.  Dialin 
and  his  urgent  lady  downstairs  Queen  ordered : 

"Bring  me  up  a  whisky-and-soda." 

"It's  splendid,  Queen,"  said  Conception  enthusi- 
astically when  the  two  were  alone  with  G.  J. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  think  so,  darling.  How  are  you, 
darling?"  She  kissed  the  older  woman  affection- 
ately, fondly,  on  the  lips,  and  then  gave  G.  J.  a  chal- 
lenging glance. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  and  called  out  very  loud: 
"Robin!  I  want  you  at  once." 

The  secretarial  Miss  Robinson,  carrying  a  note- 
book, appeared  like  magic  from  the  inner  room. 

"Get  me  the  April  number  of  The  Dancing 
News." 

"Times"  G.  J.  corrected. 

"Well,  Times.  It's  all  the  same.  And  write  to 
Mr.  Opson  and  say  that  we  really  must  have  proper 
dressing-room  accommodation.  It's  most  impor- 
tant." 

"Yes,  your  ladyship.  Your  ladyship  has  the 
sub-committee  as  to  entrance  arrangements  for  the 
public  at  half-past  six." 

"I  shan't  go.  Telephone  to  them.  I've  got  quite 
enough  to  do  without  that.  I'm  utterly  exhausted. 
Don't  forget  about  The  Dancing  Times  and  to  write 
to  Mr.  Opson." 

"Yes,  your  ladyship." 

"G.  J.,"  said  Queen  after  Robin  had  gone,  "you 
are  a  pig  if  you  don't  go  on  that  sub-committee  as 
to  entrance  arrangements.  You  know  what  the  Al- 


SALOME  213 

bert  Hall  is.  They'll  make  a  horrible  mess  of  it, 
and  it's  just  the  sort  of  thing  you  can  do  better  than 
anybody." 

"Yes.  But  a  pig  I  am,"  answered  G.  J.  firmly. 
Then  he  added:  "I'll  tell  you  how  you  might  have 
avoided  all  these  complications." 

"How?" 

"By  having  no  pageant  and  simply  going  round 
collecting  subscriptions.  Nobody  would  have  re- 
fused you.  And  there'd  have  been  no  expenses  to 
come  off  the  total." 

Lady  Queenie  put  her  lips  together. 

"Has  he  been  behaving  in  this  style  to  you, 
Con?" 

"A  little — now  and  then,"  said  Concepcion. 

Later,  when  the  chaise-longue  and  Queen's  shoes 
had  been  replaced,  and  the  tea-things  and  the  head 
of  John  the  Baptist  taken  away,  and  all  the  lights 
extinguished  save  one  over  the  mantelpiece,  and  Lady 
Queenie  had  nearly  finished  the  whisky-and-soda, 
and  nothing  remained  of  the  rehearsal  except  the 
safety-pin  between  Lady  Queenie's  knees,  G.  J.  was 
still  waiting  for  her  to  bethink  herself  of  the  Hos- 
pitals subject  upon  which  he  had  called  by  special 
request  and  appointment  to  see  her.  He  took  oath 
not  to  mention  it  first.  Shortly  afterwards,  stiff  in 
his  resolution,  he  departed. 

In  three  minutes  he  was  in  the  smoking-room  of 
his  club,  warming  himself  at  a  fine,  old,  huge,  waste- 
ful grate,  in  which  burned  such  a  coal  fire  as  could 
not  have  been  seen  in  France,  Italy,  Germany,  Aus- 
tria, Russia,  nor  anywhere  on  the  continent  of  Eu- 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

rope.  The  war  had  as  yet  changed  nothing  in  the 
impregnable  club,  unless  it  was  that  ordinary  matches 
had  recently  been  substituted  for  the  giant  matches 
on  which  the  club  had  hitherto  prided  itself.  The 
hour  lay  neglected  midway  between  tea  and  dinner, 
and  there  were  only  two  other  members  in  the  vast 
room — solitaries,  each  before  his  own  grand  fire. 

G.  J.  took  up  The  Times,  which  his  duties  had 
prevented  him  from  reading  at  large  in  the  morning. 
He  wandered  with  a  sense  of  ease  among  its  multi- 
farious pages,  and,  in  full  leisure,  brought  his  infor- 
mation up  to  date  concerning  the  state  of  the  war 
and  of  the  country.  Air-raids  by  Zeppelins  were 
frequent,  and  some  authorities  talked  magniloquently 
about  the  "defence  of  London."  Hundreds  of  peo- 
ple had  paid  immense  sums  for  pictures  and  objects 
of  art  at  the  Red  Cross  Sale  at  Christie's,  one  of  the 
most  successful  social  events  o*f  the  year.  The 
House  of  Commons  was  inquisitive  about  Mesopo- 
tamia as  a  whole,  and  one  British  Army  was  still 
trying  to  relieve  another  British  Army  besieged  in 
Kut.  German  submarine  successes  were  obviously 
disquieting.  The  supply  of  beer  was  reduced. 
There  were  to  be  forty  principal  aristocratic  dancers 
in  the  Pageant  of  Terpsichore.  The  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  had  budgeted  for  five  hundred  mill- 
ions, and  was  very  proud.  The  best  people  were 
at  once  proud  and  scared  of  the  new  income  tax  at 
55.  in  the  £.  They  expressed  the  fear  that  such  a 
tax  would  kill  income  or  send  it  to  America.  The 
theatrical  profession  was  quite  sure  that  the  amuse- 
ments tax  would  involve  utter  ruin  for  the  theatrical 


SALOME  215 

profession,  and  the  match  trade  was  quite  sure  that 
the  match  tax  would  put  an  end  to  matches,  and 
some  unnamed  modest  individuals  had  apparently 
decided  that  the  travel  tax  must  and  forthwith  would 
be  dropped.  The  story  of  the  evacuation  of  Galli- 
poli  had  grown  old  and  tedious.  Cranks  were  still 
vainly  trying  to  prove  to  the  blunt  John  Bullishness 
of  the  Prime  Minister  that  the  Daylight  Saving  Bill 
was  not  a  piece  of  mere  freak  legislation.  The  whole 
of  the  West  End  and  all  the  inhabitants  of  country 
houses  in  Britain  had  discovered  a  new  deity  in  Aus- 
tralia and  spent  all  their  spare  time  and  lungs  in  as- 
serting that  all  other  deities  were  false  and  futile; 
his  earthly  name  was  Hughes.  Jan  Smuts  was 
fighting  in  the  primeval  forests  of  East  Africa.  The 
Germans  were  discussing  their  war  aims ;  and  on  the 
Verdun  front  they  had  reached  Mort  Homme  in  the 
usual  way,  that  was,  according  to  the  London  Press, 
by  sacrificing  more  men  than  any  place  could  possibly 
be  worth;  still,  they  had  reached  Mort  Homme. 
And  though  our  losses  and  the  French  losses  were 
everywhere — one  might  assert,  so  to  speak — negli- 
gible, nevertheless  the  steadfast  band  of  thinkers 
and  fact-facers  who  held  a  monopoly  of  true  patriot- 
ism were  extremely  anxious  to  extend  the  Military 
Service  Act,  so  as  to  rope  into  the  Army  every  fit 
male  in  the  island  except  themselves. 

The  pages  of  The  Times  grew  semi-transparent, 
and  G.  J.  descried  Concepcion  moving  mysteriously 
in  a  mist  behind  them.  Only  then  did  he  begin  effect- 
ively to  realise  her  experiences  and  her  achievement 
and  her  ordeal  on  the  distant,  romantic  Clyde.  He 


216  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

said  to  himself:  "I  could  never  have  stood  what  she 
has  stood."  She  was  a  terrific  woman;  but  because 
she  was  such  a  mixture  of  the  mad-heroic  and  the 
silly-foolish,  he  rather  condescended  to  her.  She 
lacked  what  he  was  sure  he  possessed,  and  what  he 
prized  beyond  everything — poise.  And  had  she 
truly  had  a  nervous  breakdown,  or  was  that  fancy? 
Did  she  truly  despair  of  herself  as  a  ruined  woman, 
doubly  ruined,  or  was  she  acting  a  part,  as  much  in 
order  to  impress  herself  as  in  order  to  impress 
others?  He  thought  the  country,  and  particularly 
its  Press,  was  somewhat  like  Concepcion  as  a  com- 
plex. He  condescended  to  Queenie  also,  not  bitter- 
ly, but  with  sardonic  pity.  There  she  was,  unalter- 
able by  any  war,  instinctively  and  ruthlessly  working 
out  her  soul  and  her  destiny.  The  country  was  some- 
what like  Queenie  too.  But,  of  course,  compari- 
son between  Queenie  and  Concepcion  was  absurd. 
He  had  had  to  defend  himself  to  Concepcion.  And 
had  he  not  defended  himself? 

True,  he  had  begun  perhaps  too  slowly  to  work 
for  the  war;  however,  he  had  begun.  What  else 
could  he  have  done  beyond  what  he  had  done?  Be- 
come a  special  constable?  Grotesque.  He  simply 
could  not  see  himself  as  a  special  constable,  and  if 
the  country  could  not  employ  him  more  usefully  than 
in  standing  on  guard  over  an  electricity  works  or  a 
railway  bridge  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  the  country 
deserved  to  lose  his  services.  Become  a  volunteer? 
Even  more  grotesque.  Was  he,  a  man  turned  fifty, 
to  dress  up  and  fall  flat  on  the  ground  at  the  word 
of  some  fantastic  jackanapes,  or  stare  into  vacancy 


SALOME  217 

while  some  inspecting  general  examined  his  person  as 
though  it  were  a  tailor's  mannikin?  He  had  tried 
several  times  to  get  into  a  Government  department 
which  would  utilise  his  brains,  but  without  success. 
And  the  club  hummed  with  the  unimaginable  stories 
related  by  disappointed  and  dignified  middle-aged 
men  whose  too  eager  patriotism  had  been  rendered 
ridiculous  by  the  vicious  foolery  of  Government  de- 
partments. No !  He  had  some  work  to  do  and  he 
was  doing  it.  People  were  looking  to  him  for  de- 
cision, for  sagacity,  for  initiative;  he  supplied  these 
things.  His  work  might  grow  even  beyond  his  ex- 
pectations ;  but  if  it  did  not  he  should  not  worry.  He 
felt  that,  unfatigued,  he  could  and  would  contribute 
to  the  mass  of  the  national  resolution  in  the  latter 
and  more  racking  half  of  the  war. 

Morally,  he  was  profiting  by  the  war.  Nay,  more, 
in  a  deep  sense  he  was  enjoying  it.  The  immensity 
of  it,  the  terror  of  it,  the  idiocy  of  it,  the  splendour 
of  it,  its  unique  grandeur  as  an  illustration  of  human 
nature,  thrilled  the  spectator  in  him.  He  had  little 
fear  for  the  result.  The  nations  had  measured 
themselves ;  the  factors  of  the  equation  were  known. 
Britain  conceivably  might  not  win,  but  she  could 
never  lose.  And  he  did  not  accept  the  singular 
theory  that  unless  she  won  this  war  another  war 
would  necessarily  follow.  He  had,  in  spite  of  all, 
a  pretty  good  opinion  of  mankind,  and  would  not 
exaggerate  its  capacity  for  lunatic  madness.  The 
worst  was  over  when  Paris  was  definitely  saved. 
Suffering  would  sink  and  die  like  a  fire.  Privations 
were  paid  for  day  by  day  in  the  cash  of  fortitude. 


218  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Taxes  would  always  be  met.  A  whole  generation, 
including  himself,  would  rapidly  vanish  and  the  next 
would  stand  in  its  place.  And  at  worst,  the.  path  of 
evolution  was  unchangeably  appointed.  A  harsh, 
callous  philosophy.  Perhaps. 

What  impressed  him,  and  possibly  intimidated 
him  beyond  anything  else  whatever,  was  the  onset 
of  the  next  generation.  He  thought  of  Queenie,  of 
Mr.  Dialin,  of  Miss  I-forget-your-name,  of  Lieu- 
tenant Molder.  How  unconsciously  sure  of  them- 
selves and  arrogant  in  their  years!  How  strong! 
How  unapprehensive  I  (And  yet  he  had  just  been 
taking  credit  for  his  own  freedom  from  apprehen- 
siveness!)  They  were  young — and  he  was  so  no 
longer.  Pooh!  (A  brave  "pooh"!)  He  was 
wiser  than  they.  He  had  acquired  the  supreme  and 
subtly  enjoyable  faculty,  which  they  had  yet  pain- 
fully to  acquire,  of  nice,  sure,  discriminating,  all- 
weighing  judgment.  .  .  .  Concepcion  had  di- 
vested herself  of  youth.  And  Christine,  since  he 
knew  her,  had  never  had  any  youthfulness  save  the 
physical.  There  were  only  these  two. 

Said  a  voice  behind  him : 

"You  dining  here  to-night?" 

"I  am." 

"Shall  we  crack  a  bottle  together?"  (It  was  as- 
tonishing and  deplorable  how  cliches  survived  in  the 
best  clubs ! ) 

"By  all  means." 

The  voice  spoke  lower: 

"That  Bellinger's  all  gone  at  last." 


SALOME  219 

"You  were  fearing  the  worst  the  last  time  I  saw 
you,"  said  G.  J. 

"Auction  afterwards?"  the  voice  suggested. 

"Afraid  I  can't,"  said  G.  J.  after  a  moment's 
hesitation.  "I  shall  have  to  leave  early." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  STREETS 

AFTER  dinner  G.  J.  walked  a  little  eastwards  from 
the  club,  and,  entering  Leicester  Square  from  the 
south,  crossed  it,  and  then  turned  westwards  again 
on  the  left  side  of  the  road  leading  to  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cus. It  was  about  the  time  when  Christine  usually 
went  from  her  flat  to  her  Promenade.  Without  ad- 
mitting a  definite  resolve  to  see  Christine  that  even- 
ing he  had  said  to  himself  that  he  would  rather  like 
to  see  her,  or  that  he  wouldn't  mind  seeing  her,  and 
that  he  might,  if  the  mood  took  him,  call  at  Cork 
Street  and  catch  her  before  she  left.  Having  ad- 
vanced thus  far  in  the  sketch  of  his  intentions,  he  had 
decided  that  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to  take  precau- 
tions to  encounter  her  in  the  street,  assuming  that 
she  had  already  started  but  had  not  reached  the 
theatre.  The  chance  of  meeting  her  on  her  way 
was  exceedingly  small;  nevertheless,  he  would  not 
miss  it.  Hence  his  roundabout  route;  and  hence  his 
selection  of  the  chaste  as  against  the  unchaste  pave- 
ment of  Coventry  Street.  He  knew  very  little  of 
Christine's  professional  arrangements,  but  he  did 
know,  from  occasional  remarks  of  hers,  that  owing 
to  the  need  for  economy  and  the  difficulty  of  finding 
taxis  she  now  always  walked  to  the  Promenade  on 

220 


THE  STREETS  221 

dry  nights,  and  that  from  a  motive  of  self-respect 
she  always  took  the  south  side  of  Piccadilly  and  the 
south  side  of  Coventry  Street  in  order  to  avoid  the 
risk  of  ever  being  mistaken  for  something  which  she 
was  not. 

It  was  a  dry  night,  but  very  cloudy.  Points  of 
faint  illumination,  mysteriously  travelling  across  the 
heavens  and  revealing  the  otherwise  invisible  cush- 
ioned surface  of  the  clouds,  alone  showed  that 
searchlights  were  at  their  work  of  watching  over  the 
heedless  town.  Entertainments  had  drawn  in  the 
people  from  the  streets;  motor-buses  were  half 
empty;  implacable  parcels-vans,  with  thin,  exhausted 
boys  scarcely  descried  on  their  rear  perches,  forced 
the  more  fragile  traffic  to  yield  place  to  them.  Foot- 
farers  were  few,  except  on  the  north  side  of  Coven- 
try Street,  where  officers,  soldiers,  civilians,  police 
and  courtesans  marched  eternally  to  and  fro,  peer- 
ing at  one  another  in  the  thick  gloom  that,  except  in 
the  immediate  region  of  a  lamp,  put  all  girls,  the 
young  and  the  ageing,  the  pretty  and  the  ugly,  the 
good-natured  and  the  grasping,  on  a  sinister  enticing 
equality.  And  they  were  all,  men  and  women  and 
vehicles,  phantoms  flitting  and  murmuring  and  hoot- 
ing in  the  darkness.  And  the  violet  glow-worms  that 
hung  in  front  of  theatres  and  cinemas  seemed  to 
mark  the  entrances  to  unimaginable  fastnesses,  and 
the  side  streets  seemed  to  lead  to  the  precipitous 
edges  of  the  universe  where  nothing  was. 

G.  J.  recognised  Christine  just  beyond  the  knot 
of  loiterers  at  the  Piccadilly  tube.  The  improbable 
had  happened.  She  was  walking  at  what  was  for 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

her  a  rather  quick  pace,  purposeful  and  preoccupied. 
For  an  instant  the  recognition  was  not  mutual;  he 
liked  the  uninviting  stare  that  she  gave  him  as  he 
stopped. 

"It  is  thou?"  she  exclaimed,  and  her  dimly  seen 
face  softened  suddenly  into  a  delighted,  adoring 
smile. 

He  was  moved  by  the  passion  which  she  still  had 
for  him.  He  felt  vaguely  and  yet  acutely  an  undis- 
charged obligation  in  regard  to  her.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  met  her  in  such  circumstances.  A  con- 
straint fell  between  them.  In  five  minutes  she  would 
have  been  in  her  Promenade  engaged  upon  her 
highly  technical  business,  displaying  her  attractions 
while  appearing  to  protect  herself  within  a  virginal 
timidity  (for  this  was  her  natural  method) .  In  any 
case,  even  had  he  not  set  forth  on  purpose  to  find 
her,  he  could  scarcely  have  accompanied  her  to  the 
doors  of  the  theatre  and  there  left  her  to  the  night's 
routine.  They  both  hesitated,  and  then,  without  a 
word,  he  turned  aside  and  she  followed  close,  ac- 
quiescent by  training  and  by  instinct.  Knowing  his 
sure  instinct  for  what  was  proper,  she  knew  at  once 
that  hazard  had  saved  her  from  the  night's  routine, 
and  she  was  full  of  quiet  triumph.  He,  of  course, 
though  absolutely  loyal  to  her,  had  for  dignity's  sake 
to  practise  the  duplicity  of  pretending  to  make  up 
his  mind  what  he  should  do. 

They  went  through  the  Tube  station  and  were 
soon  in  one  of  the  withdrawn  streets  between  Cov- 
entry Street  and  Pall  Mall  East.  The  episode  had 
somehow  the  air  of  an  adventure.  He  looked  at 


THE  STREETS 

her;  the  hat  was  possibly  rather  large,  but,  in  truth, 
she  was  the  image  of  refinement,  delicacy,  virtue, 
virtuous  surrender.  He  thought  it  was  marvellous 
that  there  should  exist  such  a  woman  as  she.  And 
he  thought  how  marvellous  was  the  protective  vast- 
ness  of  the  town,  beneath  whose  shield  he  was  free 
— free  to  live  different  lives  simultaneously,  to  make 
his  own  laws,  to  maintain  indefinitely  exciting  and 
delicious  secrecies.  Not  half  a  mile  off  were  Con- 
cepcion  and  Queen,  and  his  amour  was  as  safe  from 
them  as  if  he  had  hidden  it  in  the  depths  of  some 
hareemed  Asiatic  city. 

Christine  said  politely: 

"But  I  detain  thee?" 

"As  for  that,"  he  replied,  "what  does  that  matter, 
after  all?" 

"Thou  knowest,"  she  said  in  a  new  tone,  "I  am 
all  that  is  most  worried.  In  this  London  they  are 
never  willing  to  leave  you  in  peace." 

"What  is  it,  my  poor  child?"  he  asked  benevo-* 
lently. 

"They  talk  of  closing  the  Promenade,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"Never!"  he  murmured  easily,  reassuringly. 

He  remembered  the  night  years  earlier  when,  as 
a  protest  against  some  restrictive  action  of  a  County 
Council,  the  theatre  of  varieties  whose  Promenade 
rivalled  throughout  the  whole  world  even  the  Prom- 
enade of  the  Folies-Bergere,  shut  its  doors  and  dark- 
ened its  blazing  facade,  and  the  entire  West  End 
seemed  to  go  into  a  kind  of  shocked  mourning.  But 
the  next  night  the  theatre  had  reopened  as  usual 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

and  the  Promenade  had  been  packed.  Close  the 
Promenades!  Absurd!  Not  the  full  bench  of 
archbishops  and  bishops  could  close  the  Promen- 
ades! The  thing  was  inconceivable,  especially  in 
war-time,  when  human  nature  was  so  human. 

"But  it  is  quite  serious!"  she  cried.  "Everyone 
speaks  of  it.  ...  What  idiots!  What  frightful 
lack  of  imagination!  And  how  unjust!  What  do 
they  suppose  we  are  going  to  do,  we  other  women? 
Do  they  intend  to  put  respectable  women  like  me  on 
to  the  pavement?  It  is  a  fantastic  idea?  Fantastic! 
.  .  .  And  the  night-clubs  closing  too !" 

"There  is  always  the  other  place." 

"The  Ottoman?  Do  not  speak  to  me  of  the 
Ottoman.  Moreover,  that  also  will  be  suppressed. 
They  are  all  mad."  She  gave  a  great  sigh.  "Oh! 
What  a  fool  I  was  to  leave  Paris!  After  all,  in 
Paris,  they  know  what  it  is,  life !  However,  I  weary 
thee.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it." 

She  controlled  her  agitation.  The  subject  was 
excessively  delicate,  and  that  she  should  have  ex- 
pressed herself  so  violently  on  it  showed  the  power- 
ful reality  of  the  emotion  it  had  aroused  in  her. 
Unquestionably  the  decency  of  her  livelihood  was  at 
stake.  She  had  convinced  him  of  the  peril.  But 
what  could  he  say?  He  could  not  say,  "Do  not 
despair.  You  are  indispensable;  therefore  you  will 
not  be  dispensed  with.  These  crises  have  often 
arisen  before,  and  they  always  end  in  the  same  man- 
ner. And  are  there  not  the  big  hotels,  the  chic 
cinemas,  certain  restaurants?  Not  to  mention  the 
clientele  which  you  must  have  made  for  yourself." 


THE  STREETS  225 

Such  remarks  were  impossible.  But  not  more  im- 
possible than  the  very  basis  of  his  relations  with  her. 
He  was  aware  again  of  the  weight  of  an  undis- 
charged obligation  to  her.  His  behaviour  towards 
her  had  always  been  perfection,  and  yet  was  she  not 
his  creditor?  He  had  a  conscience,  and  it  was  il- 
logical and  extremely  inconvenient. 

At  that  moment  a  young  man  flew  along  the  silent, 
shadowed  street,  and  as  he  passed  them  shouted 
somewhat  hysterically  the  one  word: 

"Zepps!" 

Christine  clutched  his  arm.     They  stood  stilk 

"Do  not  be  frightened,"  said  G.  J.  with  perfect 
tranquillity. 

"But  I  hear  guns,"  she  protested. 

He,  too,  heard  the  distant  sounds  of  guns,  and 
it  occurred  to  him  that  the  sounds  had  begun  earlier, 
while  they  were  talking. 

"I  expect  it's  only  anti-aircraft  practice,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  seem  to  remember  seeing  a  warning  in 
the  paper  about  there  being  practice  one  of  these 
nights." 

Christine,  increasing  the  pressure  on  his  arm  and 
apparently  trying  to  drag  him  away,  complained: 

"They  ought  to  give  warning  of  raids.  That  is 
elementary.  This  country  is  so  bizarre." 

"Oh !"  said  G.  J.,  full  of  wisdom  and  standing  his 
ground.  "That  would  never  do.  Warnings  would 
make  panics,  and  they  wouldn't  help  in  the  least.  We 
are  just  as  safe  here  as  anywhere.  Even  supposing 
there  is  an  air  raid,  the  chance  of  any  particular 
spot  being  hit  must  be  several  million  to  one  against. 


226  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

And  I  don't  think  for  a  moment  there  is  an  air  raid." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  don't,"  G.  J.  answered  with  calm  superi- 
ority. The  fact  was  that  he  did  not  know  why 
he  thought  there  was  not  an  air  raid.  To  assume 
that  there  was  not  an  air  raid,  in  the  absence  of 
proof  positive  of  the  existence  of  an  air  raid,  was 
with  him  constitutional:  a  state  of  mind  precisely 
as  illogical,  biassed  and  credulous  as  the  alarmist 
mood  which  he  disdained  in  others.  Also  he  was 
lacking  in  candour,  for  after  a  few  seconds  the  sus- 
picion crept  into  his  mind  that  there  might  indeed 
be  an  air  raid — and  he  would  not  utter  it. 

"In  any  case,"  said  Christine,  "they  always  give 
warning  in  Paris." 

He  thought: 

"I'd  better  get  this  woman  home,"  and  said 
aloud:  "Come  along." 

"But  is  it  safe?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

He  saw  that  she  was  the  primeval  woman,  ex- 
actly like  Concepcion  and  Queen.  First  she  wanted 
to  run,  and  then  when  he  was  ready  to  run  she 
asked:  "Is  it  safe?"  And  he  felt  very  indulgent  and 
comfortably  masculine.  He  admitted  that  it  would 
be  absurd  to  expect  the  conduct  of  a  frightened 
Christine  to  be  governed  by  the  operations  of  reason. 
He  was  not  annoyed,  because  personally  he  simply 
did  not  care  a  whit  whether  they  moved  or  not. 
While  they  were  hesitating  a  group  of  people  came 
round  the  corner.  These  people  were  talking  loudly, 
and  as  they  approached  G.  J.  discerned  that  one  of 
them  was  pointing  to  the  sky. 


THE  STREETS 

"There  she  is!  There  she  is!"  shouted  an  eager 
voice.  Seeing  more  human  society  in  G.  J.  and 
Christine,  the  group  stopped  near  them. 

G.  J.  gazed  in  the  indicated  direction,  and  lol 
there  was  a  point  of  light  in  the  sky. 

And  then  guns  suddenly  began  to  sound  much 
nearer. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  another  voice.  "I 
told  you  they'd  cleared  the  corner  at  the  bottom  of 
St.  James's  Street  for  a  gun.  Now  they've  got  her 
going.  Good  for  us  they're  shooting  southwards." 

Christine  was  shaking  on  G.  J.'s  arm. 

"It's  all  right!  It's  all  right!"  he  murmured 
compassionately,  and  she  tightened  her  clutch  on  him 
in  thanks. 

He  looked  hard  at  the  point  of  light,  which  might 
have  been  anything.  The  changing  forms  of  thin 
clouds  continually  baffled  the  vision. 

"By  God!"  shouted  the  first  voice.  "She's  hit. 
See  her  stagger?  She's  hit.  She'll  blaze  up  in  a 
moment.  One  down  last  week.  Another  this.  Look 
at  her  now.  She's  afire." 

The  group  gave  a  weak  cheer. 

Then  the  clouds  cleared  for  an  instant  and  re- 
vealed a  crescent.  G.  J.  said: 

"That's  the  moon,  you  idiots.  It's  not  a  Zeppe- 
lin." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  wondered,  and  regretted, 
that  he  should  be  calling  them  idiots.  They  were 
complete  strangers  to  him.  The  group  vanished, 
crestfallen,  round  another  corner.  G.  J.  laughed 
to  Christine.  Then  the  noise  of  the  guns  was  multi- 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

plied.  That  he  was  with  Christine  in  the  midst  of  an 
authentic  air-raid  could  no  longer  be  doubted.  He 
was  conscious  of  the  wine  he  had  drunk  at  the  club. 
He  had  the  sensation  of  human  beings,  men  like  him- 
self, who  ate  and  drank  and  laced  their  boots,  being 
actually  at  that  moment  up  there  in  the  sky  with 
intent  to  kill  him  and  Christine.  It  was  a  marvel- 
lous sensation,  terrible  but  exquisite.  And  he  had 
the  sensation  of  other  human  beings  beyond  the  sea, 
giving  deliberate  orders  in  German  for  murder, 
murdering  for  their  lives;  and  they,  too,  were  like 
himself,  and  ate  and  drank  and  either  laced  their 
boots  or  had  them  laced  daily.  And  the  staggering 
apprehension  of  the  miraculous  lunacy  of  war  swept 
through  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
THE  CHILD'S  ARM 

"You  see,"  he  said  to  Christine,  "it  was  not  a 
Zeppelin.  .  .  .  We  shall  be  quite  safe  here." 

But  in  that  last  phrase  he  had  now  confessed  to 
her  the  existence  of  an  air  raid.  He  knew  that  he 
was  not  behaving  with  the  maximum  of  sagacity. 
There  were,  for  example,  hotels  with  subterranean 
grill-rooms  close  by,  and  there  were  similar  refuges 
where  danger  would  be  less  than  in  the  street,  though 
the  street  was  narrow  and  might  be  compared  to  a 
trench.  And  yet  he  had  said,  "We  shall  be  quite 
safe  here."  In  others  he  would  have  condemned 
such  an  attitude. 

Now,  however,  he  realised  that  he  was  very  like 
others.  An  inactive  fatalism  had  seized  him.  He 
was  too  proud,  too  idle,  too  negligent,  too  curious, 
to  do  the  wise  thing.  He  and  Christine  were  in  the 
air-raid,  and  in  it  they  should  remain.  He  had  just 
the  senseless,  monkeyish  curiosity  of  the  staring 
crowd  so  lyrically  praised  by  the  London  Press.  He 
was  afraid,  but  his  curiosity  and  inertia  were  strong- 
er than  his  fear.  Then  came  a  most  tremendous 
explosion — the  loudest  sound,  the  most  formidable 
physical  phenomenon  that  G.  J.  had  ever  experienced 
in  his  life.  The  earth  under  their  feet  trembled. 

229 


230  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Christine  gave  a  squeal  and  seemed  to  subside  to 
the  ground,  but  he  pulled  her  up  again,  not  in  calm 
self-possession,  but  by  the  sheer  automatism  of  in- 
stinct. A  spasm  of  horrible  fright  shot  through 
him.  He  thought,  in  awe  and  stupefaction: 

"A  bomb  1" 

He  thought  about  death  and  maiming  and  blood. 
The  relations  between  him  and  those  everyday  males 
aloft  in  the  sky  seemed  to  be  appallingly  close.  After 
the  explosion  perfect  silence — no  screams,  no  noise 
of  crumbling — perfect  silence,  and  yet  the  explosion 
seemed  still  to  dominate  the  air!  Ears  ached  and 
sang.  Something  must  be  done.  All  theories  of 
safety  had  been  smashed  to  atoms  in  the  explosion. 
G.  J.  dragged  Christine  along  the  street,  he  knew 
not  why.  The  street  was  unharmed.  Not  the  slight- 
est trace  in  it,  so  far  as  G.  J.  could  tell  in  the  gloom, 
of  destruction!  But  where  the  explosion  had  been, 
whether  east,  west,  south  or  north,  he  could  not 
guess.  Except  for  the  disturbance  in  his  ears  the 
explosion  might  have  been  a  hallucination. 

Suddenly  he  saw  at  the  end  of  the  street  a  wide 
thoroughfare,  and  he  could  not  be  sure  what  thor- 
oughfare it  was.  Two  motor-buses  passed  the  end 
of  the  street  at  mad  speed;  then  two  taxis;  then  a 
number  of  people,  men  and  women,  running  hard. 
Useless  and  silly  to  risk  the  perils  of  that  wide 
thoroughfare !  He  turned  back  with  Christine.  He 
got  her  to  run.  In  the  thick  gloom  he  looked  for  an 
open  door  or  a  porch,  but  there  was  none.  The 
houses  were  like  the  houses  of  the  dead.  He  made 
more  than  one  right-angle  turn.  Christine  gave  a 


THE  CHILD'S  ARM  231 

sigh  that  she  could  go  no  farther.  He  ceased  try- 
ing to  drag  her.  He  was  recovering  himself.  Once 
more  he  heard  the  guns — childishly  feeble  after  the 
explosion  of  the  bomb'.  After  all,  one  spot  was  as 
safe  as  another. 

The  outline  of  a  building  seemed  familiar.  It  was 
an  abandoned  chapel;  he  knew  he  was  in  St.  Martin's 
Street.  He  was  about  to  pull  Christine  into  the  shel- 
ter of  the  front  of  the  chapel,  when  something  hap- 
pened for  which  he  could  not  find  a  name.  True, 
it  was  an  explosion.  But  the  previous  event  had 
been  an  explosion,  and  this  one  was  a  thousandfold 
more  intimidating.  The  earth  swayed  up  and  down. 
The  sound  alone  of  the  immeasurable  cataclysm  an- 
nihilated the  universe.  The  sound  and  the  concus- 
sion transcended  what  had  been  conceivable.  Both 
the  sound  and  the  concussion  seemed  to  last  for  a 
long  time.  Then,  like  an  afterthought,  succeeded  the 
awful  noise  of  falling  masses  and  the  innumerable 
crystal  tinkling  of  shattered  glass.  This  noise  ceased 
and  began  again.  .  .  . 

G.  J.  was  now  in  a  strange  condition  of  mild  won- 
der. There  was  silence  in  the  dark  solitude  of  St. 
Martin's  Street.  Then  the  sound  of  guns  super- 
vened once  more,  but  they  were  distant  guns.  G.  J. 
discovered  that  he  was  not  holding  Christine,  and 
also  that,  instead  of  being  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
he  was  leaning  against  the  door  of  a  house.  He 
called  faintly,  "Christine  I"  No  reply.  "In  a  mo- 
ment," he  said  to  himself,  "I  must  go  out  and  look 
for  her.  But  I  am  not  quite  ready  yet."  He  had  a 
slight  pain  in  his  side;  it  was  naught;  it  was  naught, 


especially  in  comparison  with  the  strange  conviction 
of  weakness  and  confusion. 

He  thought: 

"We've  not  won  this  war  yet,"  and  he  had  qualms. 

One  poor  lamp  burned  in  the  street.  He  started 
to  walk  slowly  and  uncertainly  towards  it.  Near  by 
he  saw  a  hat  on  the  ground.  It  was  his  own.  He 
put  it  on.  Suddenly  the  street  lamp  went  out.  He 
walked  on,  and  stepped  ankle-deep  into  broken  glass. 
Then  the  road  was  clear  again.  He  halted.  Not  a 
sign  of  Christine !  He  decided  that  she  must  have 
run  away,  and  that  she  would  run  blindly  and,  find- 
ing herself  either  in  Leicester  Square  or  Lower  Re- 
gent Street,  would  by  instinct  run  home.  At  any 
rate,  she  could  not  be  blown  to  atoms,  for  they  were 
together  at  the  instant  of  the  explosion.  She  must 
exist,  and  she  must  have  had  the  power  of  motion. 
He  remembered  that  he  had  had  a  stick;  he  had  it 
no  longer.  He  turned  back  and,  taking  from  his 
pocket  the  electric  torch  which  had  lately  come  into 
fashion,  he  examined  the  road  for  hisi  stick.  The  sole 
object  of  interest  which  the  torch  revealed  was  a 
child's  severed  arm,  with  a  fragment  of  brown  frock 
on  it  and  a  tinsel  ring  on  one  of  the  fingers  of  the 
dirty  little  hand.  The  blood  from  the  other  end  had 
stained  the  ground.  G.  J.  abruptly  switched  off  the 
torch.  Nausea  overcame  him,  and  then  a  feeling 
of  the  most  intense  pity  and  anger  overcame  the 
nausea.  (A  month  elapsed  before  he  could  mention 
his  discovery  of  the  child's  arm  to  anyone  at  all.) 
The  arm  lay  there  as  if  it  had  been  thrown  there. 


THE  CHILD'S  ARM  233 

Whence  had  it  come?  No  doubt  it  had  come  from 
over  the  housetops.  .  .  . 

He  smelt  gas,  and  then  he  felt  cold  water  in  his 
boots.  Water  was  advancing  in  a  flood  along  the 
street.  "Broken  mains,  of  course,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, and  was  rather  pleased  with  the  promptness 
of  his  explanation.  At  the  elbow  of  St.  Martin's 
Street,  where  a  new  dim  vista  opened  up,  he  saw 
policemen,  then  firemen;  then  he  heard  the  beat  of 
a  fire-engine,  upon  whose  brass  glinted  the  reflection 
of  flames  that  were  flickering  in  a  gap  between  two 
buildings.  A  huge  pile  of  debris  encumbered  the 
middle  of  the  road.  The  vista  was  closed  by  a  barri- 
cade, beyond  which  was  a  pressing  crowd.  "Stand 
clear  there!"  said  a  policeman  to  him  roughly. 
"There's  a  wall  going  to  fall  there  any  minute."  He 
walked  off,  hurrying  with  relief  from  the  half-lit 
scene  of  busy,  dim  silhouettes.  He  could  scarcely 
understand  it;  and  he  was  incapable  of  replying  to 
the  policeman.  He  wanted  to  "be  alone  and  to  pon- 
der himself  back  into  perfect  composure.  At  the 
elbow  again  he  halted  afresh.  And  as  he  stood 
figures  in  couples,  bearing  stretchers,  strode  past  him. 
The  stretchers  were  covered  with  cloths  that  hung 
down.  Not  the  faintest  sound  came  from  beneath 
the  cloths. 

After  a  time  he  went  on.  The  other  exit  of  St. 
Martin's  Street  was  being  barricaded  as  he  reached 
it.  A  large  crowd  had  assembled,  and  there  was  a 
sound  of  talking  like  steady  rain.  He  pushed  grimly 
through  the  crowd.  He  was  set  apart  from  the 
idle  crowd.  He  would  tell  the  crowd  nothing.  In  a 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

minute  he  was  going  westwards  on  the  left  side  of 
Coventry  Street  again.  The  other  side  was  as 
populous  with  saunterers  as  ever.  The  violent  glow- 
worms still  burned  in  front  of  the  theatres  and 
cinemas.  Motor-buses  swept  by ;  taxis  swept  by ;  par- 
cels vans  swept  by,  hooting.  A  newsman  was  selling 
papers  at  the  corner.  Was  he  in  a  dream  now?  Or 
had  be  been  in  a  dream  in  St.  Martin's  Street?  The 
vast  capacity  of  the  capital  for  digesting  experience 
seemed  to  endanger  his  reason.  Save  for  the  frag- 
ments of  eager  conversation  everywhere  overheard, 
there  was  not  a  sign  of  disturbance  of  the  town's 
habitual  life.  And  he  was  within  four  hundred  yards 
of  the  child's  arm  and  of  the  spot  where  the  proces- 
sion of  stretcher-bearers  had  passed.  One  thought 
gradually  gained  ascendancy  in  his  mind:  "I  am 
saved!"  It  became  exultant:  "I  might  have  been 
blown  to  bits,  but  I  am  saved!"  Despite  the  world's 
anguish  and  the  besetting  immanence  of  danger,  life 
and  the  city  which  he  inhabited  had  never  seemed  so 
enchanting,  so  lovely,  as  they  did  then.  He  hurried 
towards  Cork  Street,  hopeful. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"ROMANCE" 

AT  two  periods  of  the  day  Marthe,  with  great 
effort  and  for  professional  purposes,  achieved  some 
degree  of  personal  tidiness.  The  first  period  began 
at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  By  six  o'clock 
or  six-thirty  she  had  slipped  back  into  the  sloven. 
The  second  period  began  at  about  ten  o'clock  at 
night.  It  was  more  brilliant  while  it  lasted,  but  ow- 
ing to  the  accentuation  of  Marthe's  characteristics 
by  fatigue  it  seldom  lasted  more  than  an  hour.  When 
Marthe  opened  the  door  to  G.  J.  she  was  at  her 
proudest,  intensely  conscious  of  being  clean  and  neat, 
and  unwilling  to  stand  any  nonsense  from  anybody. 
Of  course  she  was  polite  to  G.  J.  as  the  chief  friend 
of  the  establishment  and  a  giver  of  good  tips,  but 
she  deprecated  calls  by  gentlemen  in  the  evening,  for 
unless  they  were  made  by  appointment  the  risk  of 
complications  at  once  arose. 

The  mention  of  an  air-raid  rendered  her  definitely 
inimical.  Formerly  Marthe  had  been  more  than 
average  nervous  in  air-raids,  but  she  had  grown 
used  to  them  and  now  defied  them.  As  she  kept  all 
windows  closed  on  principle  she  heard  less  of  raids 
than  some  people.  G.  J.  did  not  explain  the  circum- 
stances. He  simply  asked  if  Madame  had  returned. 

235 


236  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

No,  Madame  had  not  returned.  True,  Marthe  had 
not  been  unaware  of  guns  and  things,  but  there  was 
no  need  to  worry;  Madame  must  have  arrived  at 
the  theatre  long  before  the  guns  started.  Marthe 
really  could  not  be  bothered  with  these  unnecessary 
apprehensions.  She  had  her  duties  to  attend  to  like 
other  folks,  and  they  were  heavy,  and  she  washed 
her  hands  of  air  raids;  she  accepted  no  responsibility 
for  them;  for  her,  within  the  flat,  they  did  not  exist, 
and  the  whole  German  war-machine  was  thereby 
foiled.  G.  J.  was  on  the  point  of  a  full  explana- 
tion, but  he  checked  himself.  A  recital  of  the  cir- 
cumstances would  not  immediately  help,  and  it  might 
hinder.  Concealing  his  astonishment  at  the  excesses 
of  which  unimaginative  stolidity  is  capable,  even  in 
an  Italian,  he  turned  down  the  stairs  again. 

He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  stairs,  because 
he  did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  do,  and  he 
a^emed  to  lack  force  for  decisions.  No  harm  could 
have  happened  to  Christine;  she  had  run  off,  that 
was  certain.  And  yet — had  he  not  often  heard  of 
the  impish  tricks  of  explosions?  Of  one  person  be- 
ing taken  and  another  left?  Was  it  not  possible 
that  Christine  had  been  blown  to  the  other  end  of 
the  street,  and  was  now  lying  there?  .  .  .  No! 
Either  she  was  on  her  way  home,  or,  automatically, 
she  had  scurried  to  the  theatre,  which  was  close  to  St. 
Martin's  Street,  and  had  been  too  fearful  to  venture 
forth  again.  Perhaps  she  was  looking  somewhere 
for  him.  Yet  she  might  be  dead.  In  any  case,  what 
could  he  do?  Ring  up  the  police ?  It  was  too  soon. 
He  decided  that  he  would  wait  in  Cork  Street  for 


"ROMANCE"  237 

half  an  hour.  This  plan  appealed  to  him  for  the 
mere  reason  that  it  was  negative. 

As  he  opened  the  front  door  he  saw  a  taxi  stand- 
ing outside.  The  taxi-man  had  taken  one  of  the 
lamps  from  its  bracket,  and  was  looking  into  the 
interior  of  the  cab,  which  was  ornate  with  toy-cur- 
tains and  artificial  flowers  to  indicate  to  the  world 
that  he  was  an  owner-driver  and  understood  life. 
Hearing  the  noise  of  the  door,  he  turned  his  head — > 
he  was  wearing  a  bowler  hat  and  a  smart  white  muf- 
fler— and  said  to  G.  J.,  with  self-respecting  respect 
for  a  gentleman: 

"This  is  No.  170,  isn't  it,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

The  taxi-man  jerked  his  head  to  draw  G.  J.'s  at- 
tention to  the  interior  of  the  vehicle.  Christine  was 
half  on  the  seat  and  half  on  the  floor,  unconscious, 
with  shut  eyes. 

Instantly  G.  J.  was  conscious  of  making  a  complete 
recovery  from  all  the  effects,  physical  and  moral,  of 
the  air  raid. 

"Just  help  me  to  get  her  out,  will  you?"  he  said 
in  a  casual  tone,  "and  I'll  carry  her  upstairs.  Where 
did  you  pick  the  lady  up?" 

"Strand,  sir,  nearly  opposite  Romano's." 

"The  dickens  you  did!" 

"Shock  from  air  raid,  I  suppose,  sir." 

"Probably." 

"She  did  seem  a  little  upset  when  she  hailed  me, 
or  I  shouldn't  have  taken  her.  I  was  off  home,  and 
I  took  her  only  to  oblige." 

The  taxi-man  ran  quickly  round  to  the  other  side 


238  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

of  the  cab  and  entered  it  by  the  off-door,  behind 
Christine.  Together  the  men  lifted  her  up. 

"I  can  manage  her,"  said  G.  J.  calmly. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  you'll  have  to  get  hold  lower 
down,  so  as  her  waist'll  be  nearly  as  high  as  your 
shoulder.  My  brother's  a  fireman." 

"Right,"  said  G.  J.  "By  the  way,  what's  the 
fare?" 

Holding  Christine  across  his  shoulder  with  the 
right  arm,  he  unbuttoned  his  overcoat  with  his  left 
hand  and  took  out  change  from  his  trouser  pocket 
for  the  driver. 

"You  might  pull  the  door  to  after  me,"  he  said, 
in  response  to  the  driver's  expression  of  thanks. 

"Certainly,  sir." 

The  door  banged.  He  was  alone  with  Christine 
on  the  long,  dark,  inclement  stairs.  He  felt  the 
contours  of  her  body  through  her  clothes.  She  was 
limp,  helpless.  She  was  a  featherweight.  She  was 
nothing  at  all;  inexpressibly  girlish,  pathetic,  dear. 
Never  had  G.  J.  felt  as  he  felt  then.  He  mounted 
the  stairs  rather  quickly,  with  firm,  disdaining  steps» 
and,  despite  his  being  a  little  out  of  breath,  he  had 
a  tremendous  triumph  over  the  stolidity  of  Marthe 
when  she  answered  his  ring.  Marthe  screamed,  and 
in  the  scream  readjusted  her  views  concerning  air- 
raids. 

"It's  queer  this  swoon  lasting  such  a  long  time !" 
he  reflected,  when  Christine  had  been  deposited  on 
the  sofa  in  the  sitting-room,  and  the  common  reme- 
dies and  tricks  tried  without  result,  and  Marthe  had 
gone  into  the  kitchen  to  make  hot  water  hotter. 


"ROMANCE"  239 

He  had  established  absolute  empire  over  Marthe. 
He  had  insisted  on  Marthe  not  being  silly;  and  yet, 
though  he  had  already  been  silly  himself  in  his  ab- 
surd speculations  as  to  the  possibility  of  Christine's 
death,  he  was  now  in  danger  of  being  silly  again. 
Did  ordinary  swoons  ever  continue  as  this  one  was 
continuing?  Would  Christine  ever  .come  out  of  it? 
He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  and  her  head 
and  shoulders  were  right  under  him,  so  that  he 
looked  almost  perpendicularly  down  upon  them. 
Her  face  was  as  pale  as  ivory;  every  drop  of  blood 
seemed  to  have  left  it;  the  same  with  her  neck  and 
bosom;  her  limbs  had  dropped  anyhow,  in  disarray; 
a  fur  jacket  was  untidily  cast  over  her  black  muslin 
dress.  But  her  waved  hair,  fresh  from  the  weekly 
visit  of  the  professional  coiffeur,  remained  in  the 
most  perfect  order. 

G.  J.  looked  round  the  room.  It  was  getting  very- 
shabby.  Its  pale  enamelled  shabbiness  and  the  taw- 
dry ugliness  of  nearly  every  object  in  it  had  never  re- 
pelled and  saddened  him  as  they  did  then.  The  sole 
agreeable  item  was  a  large  photograph  of  the  mis- 
tress in  a  rich  silver  frame  which  he  had  given  her. 
She  would  not  let  him  buy  knickknacks  or  draperies 
for  her  drawing-room;  she  preferred  other  presents. 
And  now  that  she  lay  in  the  room,  but  with  no  power 
to  animate  it,  he  knew  what  the  room  really  looked 
like ;  it  looked  like  a  dentist's  waiting  room,  except 
that  no  dentist  would  expose  copies  of  La  Fie  Pari- 
sienne  to  the  view  of  clients.  It  had  no  more  indi- 
viduality than  a  dentist's  waiting  room.  Indeed  it 
was  a  dentist's  waiting  room.  He  remembered  that 


240  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

he  had  had  similar  ideas  about  the  room  at  the  be- 
ginning of  his  acquaintance  with  Christine;  but  he 
had  partially  forgotten  them,  and  moreover,  they 
had  not  by  any  means  been  so  clear  and  desolating 
as  in  that  moment. 

He  looked  from  the  photograph  to  her  face.  The 
face  was  like  the  photograph,  but  in  the  swoon  its 
wistfulness  became  unbearable.  And  it  was  so 
young.  What  was  she?  Twenty-seven?  She  could 
not  be  twenty-eight.  No  age!  A  girl!  And  talk 
about  experience !  She  had  had  scarcely  any  expe- 
rience, save  one  kind  of  experience.  The  monotony 
and  narrowness  of  her  life  were  terrifying  to  him. 
He  had  fifty  interests,  but  she  had  only  one.  All  her 
days  were  alike.  She  had  no  change  and  no  holiday; 
no  past  and  no  future;  no  family;  no  intimate  friends 
— unless  Marthe  was  an  intimate  friend;  no  hori- 
zons, no  prospects.  'She  witnessed  life  in  London 
through  the  distorting,  mystifying  veil  of  a  foreign 
language  imperfectly  understood.  She  was  the  most 
solitary  girl  in  London,  or  she  would  have  been  were 
there  not  a  hundred  thousand  or  so  others  in  nearly 
the  same  case.  .  .  .  Stay!  Once  she  had  delicately 
allowed  him  to  divine  that  she  had  been  to  Bourne- 
mouth with  a  gentleman  for  a  week-end.  He  could 
recall  nothing  else.  Nightly,  or  almost  nightly,  she 
listened  to  the  same  insufferably  tedious  jokes  in  the 
same  insufferably  tedious  revue.  But  the  authorities 
were  soon  going  to  deprive  her  of  the  opportunity  of 
doing  that.  And  then  she  would  cease  to  receive 
even  the  education  that  revues  can  furnish,  and  in 
her  mind  no  images  would  survive  but  images  con- 


"ROMANCE" 

nected  with  the  material  arts  of  love.  For,  after  all, 
what  had  they  truly  in  common,  he  and  she,  but  a 
periodical  transient  excitation? 

When  next  he  looked  at  her,  her  eyes  were  wide 
open  and  a  flush  was  coming,  as  imperceptibly  as 
the  dawn,  into  her  cheeks.  He  took  her  hands  again 
and  rubbed  them.  Marthe  returned,  and  Christine 
drank.  She  gazed,  in  weak  silence,  first  at  Marthe 
and  then  at  G.  J.  After  a  few  moments  no  one 
spoke.  Marthe  took  off  Christine's  boots,  and 
rubbed  her  stockinged  feet,  and  then  kissed  them 
violently. 

"Madame  should  go  to  bed." 

"I  am  better." 

Marthe  left  the  room,  seeming  resentful. 

"What  has  passed?"  Christine  murmured,  with- 
out smiling. 

"A  faint  in  the  taxi,  my  poor  child.  That  was 
all,"  said  G.  J.  calmly. 

"But  how  is  it  that  I  find  myself  here?" 

"I  carried  thee  upstairs  in  my  arms." 

"Thou?" 

"Why  not?"  He  spoke  lightly,  with  careful  neg- 
ligence. "It  appears  that  thou  wast  in  the  Strand." 

"Was  I?  I  lost  thee.  Something  tore  thee  from 
me.  I  ran.  I  ran  till  I  could  not  run.  I  was  sure 
that  never  more  should  I  see  thee  alive.  Oh !  My 
Gilbert,  what  terrible  moments!  What  a  catas- 
trophe! Never  shall  I  forget  those  moments!" 

G.  J.  said,  with  bland  supremacy: 

"But  it  is  necessary  that  thou  shouldst  forget  them. 
Master  thyself.  Thou  knowst  now  what  it  is — an 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

.air-raid.  It  was  an  ordinary  air-raid.  There  have 
been  many  like  it.  There  will  be  many  more.  For 
once  we  were  in  the  middle  of  a  raid — by  chance. 
But  we  are  safe — that  is  enough." 

"But  the  deaths?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"But  there  must  have  been  many  deaths!" 

"I  do  not  know.  There  will  have  been  deaths. 
There  usually  are."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Christine  sat  up  and  gave  a  little  screech. 

"Ah !"  She  burst  out,  her  features  suddenly  trans- 
formed by  enraged  protest.  "Why  wilt  thou  act  thy 
cold  man?" 

He  was  amazed  at  the  sudden  nervous  strength 
she  showed. 

"But,  my  little  one " 

She  cried: 

"Why  wilt  thou  act  thy  cold  man?  I  shall  be- 
come mad  in  this  sacred  England.  I  shall  become 
totally  mad.  You  are  all  the  same,  all,  all,  men  and 
women.  You  are  marvels — let  it  be  sol — but  you 
are  not  human.  Do  you  then  wish  to  be  taken  for 
telegraph  poles?  Always  you  are  pretending  some- 
thing. Pretending  that  you  have  no  sentiments. 
And  you  are  soaked  in  sentimentality.  But  no !  You 
will  not  show  it !  You  will  not  applaud  your  soldiers 
in  the  streets.  You  will  not  salute  your  flag.  You 
will  not  salute  even  a  corpse.  You  have  only  one 
phrase:  'It  is  nothing.'  If  you  win  a  battle,  'It  is 
nothing.'  If  you  lose  one,  'It  is  nothing.'  If 
you  are  nearly  killed  in  an  air-raid,  'It  is  nothing.' 
And  if  you  were  killed  outright  and  could  yet  speak, 


"ROMANCE"  248 

you  would  say,  with  your  eternal  sneer,  'It  is  nothing.' 
You  other  men,  you  make  love  with  the  air  of  turn- 
ing on  a  tap.  As  for  your  women,  God  knows 1 

But  I  have  a  horror  of  Englishwomen.  Prudes  but 
wantons.  Can  I  not  guess?  Always  hypocrites. 
Alway  holding  themselves  in.  My  God,  that  pinched 
smile!  And  your  women  of  the  world  especially. 
Have  they  a  natural  gesture?  Yet  does  not  every- 
one know  that  they  are  rotten  with  vice  and  per- 
versity? And  your  actresses!  .  .  .  And  they  talk 
of  us!  Ah,  well!  For  me,  I  can  say  that  I  earn 
my  living  honestly,  every  sou  of  it.  For  all  that 
I  receive,  I  give.  And  they  would  throw  me  on 
to  the  pavement  to  starve,  me  whose  function  in 
society " 

She  collapsed  in  sobs,  and  with  averted  face  held 
out  her  arms  in  appeal.  G.  J.,  at  once  admiring 
and  stricken  with  compassion,  bent  and  clasped  her 
neck,  and  kissed  her,  and  kept  his  mouth  on  hers. 
Her  tears  dropped  freely  on  his  cheeks.  Her  sobs 
shook  both  of  them.  Gradually  the  sobs  decreased 
in  violence  and  frequency.  In  an  infant's  broken 
voice  she  murmured  into  his  mouth: 

"My  wolf!  Is  it  true — that  thou  didst  carry  me 
here  in  thy  arms?  I  am  so  proud." 

He  was  not  in  the  slightest  degree  irritated  or 
grieved  by  her  tirade.  But  the  childlike  change- 
ableness  and  facility  of  her  emotions  touched  him. 
He  savoured  her  youth,  and  himself  felt  curiously 
young.  It  was  the  fact  that  within  the  last  year  he 
had  grown  younger. 

He  thought  of  great  intellectuals,  artists,  men  of 


244  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

action,  princes,  kings — historical  figures — in  whom 
courtesans  had  inspired  immortal  passion.  He 
thought  of  the  illustrious  courtesans  who  had  made 
themselves  heroic  in  legend,  women  whose  loves 
were  countless  and  often  venal,  and  yet  whose  re- 
nown had  come  down  to  posterity  as  gloriously  as 
that  of  supreme  poets.  He  thought  of  lifelong  pas- 
sionate attachments,  which  to  the  world  were  inex- 
plicable, and  which  the  world  never  tired  of  leniently 
discussing.  He  overheard  people  saying:  "Yes. 
Picked  her  up  somewhere,  in  a  Promenade.  She 
worships  him,  and  he  adores  her.  Don't  know  where 
he  hides  her.  You  see  them  about  together  some- 
times— at  concerts,  for  instance.  Mysterious-look- 
ing creature  she  is.  Plays  the  part  very  well,  too. 
Strange  affair.  But,  of  course,  there's  no  accounting 
for  these  things." 

The  role  attracted  him.  And  there  could  be  no 
doubt  that  she  did  worship  him  utterly.  He  did 
not  analyse  his  feeling  for  her — perhaps  could  not. 
She  satisfied  something  in  him  that  was  profound. 
She  never  offended  his  sensibilities,  nor  wearied  him. 
Her  manners  were  excellent,  her  gestures  full  of 
grace  and  modesty,  her  temperament  extreme.  A 
unique  combination!  And  if  the  tie  between  them 
was  not  real  and  secure,  why  should  he  have  yearned 
for  her  company  that  night  after  the  scenes  with 
Concepcion  and  Queen.  Those  women  challenged 
him,  discomposed  him,  fretted  him,  fought  him,  left 
his  nerves  raw.  She  soothed.  Why  should  he  not, 
in  the  French  phrase,  "put  her  among  her  own  furni- 
ture"? In  a  proper  artistic  environment,  an  en- 


"ROMANCE"  245 

vironment  created  by  himself,  of  taste  and  moderate 
luxury,  she  would  be  exquisite.  She  would  blossom. 
And  she  would  blossom  for  him  alone.  She  would 
live  for  his  footstep  on  her  threshold;  and  when  he 
was  not  there  she  would  dream  amid  cushions  like 
a  cat.  In  the  right  environment  she  would  become 
another  being,  that  was  to  say,  the  same  being,  but 
orchidised.  And  when  he  was  old,  when  he  was 
sixty-five,  she  would  still  be  young,  still  be  under 
forty  and  seductive.  And  the  publishing  of  his  last 
will  and  testament,  under  which  she  inherited  all, 
would  render  her  famous  throughout  all  the  West 
End,  and  the  word  "romance"  would  spring  to  every 
lip.  He  searched  in  his  mind  for  the  location  of 
suitable  flats. 

"Is  it  true  that  thou  didst  carry  me  in  thine  arms?" 
repeated  Christine. 

He  murmured  into  her  mouth: 

"Is  it  true?    Can  she  doubt?    The  proof,  then." 

And  he  picked  her  up  as  though  she  had  been  a 
doll,  and  carried  her  into  the  bedroom.  As  she  lay 
on  the  bed,  she  raised  her  arm  and  looked  at  the 
broken  wrist  watch  and  sighed. 

"My  mascot.    It  is  not  a  blague,  my  mascot." 

Shortly  afterwards  she  began  to  cry  again,  at  first 
gently;  then  sobs  supervened. 

"She  must  sleep,"  he  said  firmly. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  cannot.  I  have  been  too  upset.  It  is  impos- 
sible that  I  should  sleep." 

"She  must." 

"Go  and  buy  me  a  drug." 


246  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"If  I  go  and  buy  her  a  drug,  will  she  undress  and 
get  into  bed  while  I  am  away?" 

She  nodded. 

Calling  Marthe,  and  taking  the  latchkey  of  the 
street  door,  he  went  to  his  chemist's  in  Dover  Street 
and  bought  some  potassium  bromide  and  sal  vola- 
tile. When  he  came  back  Marthe  whispered  to 
him: 

"She  sleeps.  She  has  told  me  everything  as  I 
undressed  her.  The  poor  child  1" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MRS.    BRAIDING 

G.  J.  WENT  home  at  once,  partly  so  that  Christine 
should  not  be  disturbed,  partly  because  he  desired 
solitude  in  order  to  examine  and  compose  his  mind. 
Mrs.  Braiding  had  left  an  agreeable  modest  fire — 
fit  for  cold  April — in  the  drawing-room.  He  had 
just  sat  down  in  front  of  it  and  was  tranquillising 
himself  in  the  familiar  harmonious  beauty  of  the 
apartment  (which,  however,  did  seem  rather  insipid 
after  the  decorative  excesses  of  Queen's  room), 
when  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  little  stairway  from 
the  upper  floor.  Mrs.  Braiding  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

This  was  a  Mrs.  Braiding  very  different  from  the 
Mrs.  Braiding  of  1914,  a  shameless  creature  of 
more  rounded  contours  than  of  old,  and  not  quite 
so  spick  and  span  as  of  old.  She  was  carrying  in 
her  arms  that  which  before  the  war  she  could  not 
have  conceived  herself  as  carrying.  The  being  was 
invisible  in  wraps,  but  it  was  there;  and  she  seemed 
to  have  no  shame  for  it,  seemed  indeed  to  be  proud 
of  it  and  defiant  about  it. 

Braiding's  military  career  had  been  full  of  sur- 
prises. He  had  expected  within  a  few  months  of 
joining  the  colours  to  be  dashing  gloriously  and 

247 


248  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

homicidally  at  panic-stricken  Germans  across  the 
plains  of  Flanders,  to  be,  in  fact,  saving  the  Empire 
at  the  muzzle  of  rifle  and  the  point  of  bayonet.  In 
truth,  he  found  that  for  interminable,  innumerable 
weeks  his  job  was  to  save  the  Empire  by  cleaning 
harness  on  the  East  Coast  of  England — for  under 
advice  he  had  transferred  to  the  artillery.  Later, 
when  his  true  qualifications  were  discovered,  he  had 
to  save  the  Empire  by  polishing  the  buttons  and 
serving  the  morning  tea  and  buying  the  cigarettes 
of  a  major  who  in  1914  had  been  a  lawyer  by  pro- 
fession and  a  soldier  only  for  fun.  The  major  talked 
too  much,  and  to  the  wrong  people.  He  became  lyric 
concerning  the  talents  of  Braiding  to  a  dandiacal 
Divisional  General  at  Colchester,  and  soon,  by  the 
actuating  of  mysterious  forces  and  the  filling  up  of 
many  Army  forms,  Braiding  was  removed  to  Col- 
chester, and  had  to  save  the  Empire  by  valeting  the 
Divisional  General.  Foiled  in  one  direction,  Braid- 
ing advanced  in  another.  By  tradition,  when  a  valet 
marries  a  lady's  maid,  the  effect  on  the  birth  rate 
is  naught.  And  it  is  certain  that  but  for  the  war 
Braiding  would  not  have  permitted  himself  to  act  as 
he  did.  The  Empire,  however,  needed  citizens.  The 
first  rumour  that  Braiding  had  done  what  in  him  lay 
to  meet  the  need  spread  through  the  kitchens  of  the 
Albany  like  a  new  gospel,  incredible  and  stupefying 
• — but  which  imposed  itself.  The  Albany  was  never 
the  same  again. 

All  the  kitchens  were  agreed  that  Mr.  Hoape 
would  soon  be  stranded.  The  spectacle  of  Mrs. 
Braiding  as  she  slipped  out  of  a  morning  past  the 


MRS.  BRAIDING  249 

porter's  lodge  mesmerised  beholders.  At  last,  when 
things  had  reached  the  limit,  Mrs.  Braiding  slipped 
out  and  did  not  come  back.  Meanwhile  a  much 
younger  sister  of  hers  had  been  introduced  into  the 
flat.  But  when  Mrs.  Braiding  went  the  virgin  went 
also.  The  flat  was  more  or  less  closed,  and  Mr. 
Hoape  had  slept  at  his  club  for  weeks.  At  length 
the  flat  was  reopened,  but  whereas  three  had  left  it, 
four  returned. 

That  a  bachelor  of  Mr.  Hoape's  fastidiousness 
should  tolerate  in  his  home  a  woman  with  a  tiny 
baby  was  remarkable;  it  was  as  astounding  perhaps 
as  any  phenomenon  of  the  war,  and  a  sublime  proof 
that  Mr.  Hoape  realised  that  the  Empire  was  fight- 
ing for  its  life.  It  arose  from  the  fact  that  both 
G.  J.  and  Braiding  were  men  of  considerable  sagac- 
ity. Braiding  had  issued  an  order,  after  seeing  G.  J., 
that  his  wife  should  not  leave  G.  J.'s  service.  And 
Mrs.  Braiding,  too,  had  her  sense  of  duty.  She  was 
very  proud  of  G.  J.'s  war-work,  and  would  have 
thought  it  disloyal  to  leave  him  in  the  lurch,  and  so 
possibly  prejudice  the  war-work — especially  as  she 
was  convinced  that  he  would  never  get  anybody  else 
comparable  to  herself. 

At  first  she  had  been  a  little  apologetic  and  diffi- 
dent about  her  offspring.  But  soon  the  man-child 
had  established  an  important  position  in  the  flat,  and 
though  he  was  generally  invisible,  his  individuality 
pervaded  the  whole  place.  G.  J.  had  easily  got 
accustomed  to  the  new  inhabitant.  He  tolerated  and 
then  liked  the  babe.  He  had  never  nursed  it — for 
such  an  act  would  have  been  excessive — but  he  had 


250  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

once  stuck  his  finger  in  its  mouth,  and  he  had  given 
it  a  perambulator  that  folded  up.  He  did  venture 
secretly  to  hope  that  Braiding  would  not  imagine  it 
to  be  his  duty  to  provide  further  for  the  needs  of 
the  Empire. 

That  Mrs.  Braiding  had  grown  rather  shameless 
in  motherhood  was  shown  by  her  quite  casual  de- 
meanour as  she  now  came  into  the  drawing-room 
with  the  baby,  for  this  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
come  into  the  drawing-room  with  the  baby,  knowing 
her  august  master  to  be  there. 

"Mrs.  Braiding,"  said  G.  J.  "That  child  ought 
to  be  asleep." 

"He  is  asleep,  sir,"  said  the  woman,  glancing 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  immortal  package,  "but 
Maria  hasn't  been  able  to  get  back  yet  because  of 
the  raid,  and  I  didn't  want  to  leave  him  upstairs 
alone  with  the  cat.  He  slept  all  through  the  raid." 

"It  seems  some  of  you  have  made  the  cellar  quite 
comfortable." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  Particularly  now  with  the  oil-stove 
and  the  carpet.  Perhaps  one  night  you'll  come 
down,  sir." 

"I  may  have  to.  I  shouldn't  have  been  much  sur- 
prised to  find  some  damage  here  to-night.  They've 
been  very  close,  you  know.  .  .  .  Near  Leicester 
Square."  He  could  not  be  troubled  to  say  more 
than  that. 

"Have  they  really,  sir?  It's  just  like  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Braiding.  And  she  then  continued  in  exactly 
the  same  tone:  "Lady  Queenie  Paulle  has  just  been 
telephoning  from  Lechford  House,  sir."  She  still — 


MRS.  BRAIDING  251 

despite  her  marvellous  experiences — impishly  loved 
to  make  extraordinary  announcements  as  if  they  were 
nothing  at  all.  And  she  felt  an  uplifted  satisfaction 
in  having  talked  to  Lady  Queenie  Paulle  herself  on 
the  telephone. 

"What  does  she  want?"  G.  J.  asked  impatiently, 
and  not  at  all  in  a  voice  proper  for  the  mention  of  a 
Lady  Queenie  to  a  Mrs.  Braiding.  He  was  an- 
noyed; he  resented  any  disturbance  of  the  repose 
which  he  so  acutely  needed. 

Mrs-  Braiding  showed  that  she  was  a  little 
shocked.  The  old  harassed  look  of  bearing  up 
against  complex  anxieties  came  into  her  face. 

"Her  ladyship  wished  to  speak  to  you,  sir,  on  a 
matter  of  importance.  I  didn't  know  where  you 
were,  sir." 

That  last  phrase  was  always  used  by  Mrs.  Braid- 
ing when  she  wished  to  imply  that  she  could  guess 
where  G.  J.  had  been.  He  did  not  suppose  that  she 
was  acquainted  with  the  circumstances  of  his  amour, 
but  he  had  a  suspicion  amounting  to  conviction  that 
she  had  conjectured  it,  as  men  of  science  from  cer- 
tain derangements  in  their  calculations  will  con- 
jecture the  existence  of  a  star  that  no  telescope  has 
revealed. 

"Well,  better  leave  Lady  Queenie  alone  for  to- 
night." 

"I  promised  her  Ladyship  that  I  would  ring  her 
up  again  in  any  case  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  That 
was  approximately  ten  minutes  ago." 

He  could  not  say: 

"Be  hanged  to  your  promises!" 


252  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Reluctantly  he  went  to  the  telephone  himself,  and 
learnt  from  Lady  Queenie,  who  always  knew  every- 
thing, that  the  raiders  were  expected  to  return  in 
about  half  an  hour,  and  that  she  and  Concepcion 
desired  his  presence  at  Lechford  House.  He  replied 
coldly  that  he  was  too  tired  to  come,  and  was  indeed 
practically  in  bed.  "But  you  must  come.  Don't 
you  understand  we  want  you?"  said  Lady  Queenie 
autocratically,  adding:  "And  don't  forget  that  busi- 
ness about  the  hospitals.  We  didn't  attend  to  it 
this  afternoon,  you  know."  He  said  to  himself: 
"And  whose  fault  was  that?"  and  went  off  angrily, 
wondering  what  mysterious  power  of  convention  it 
was  that  compelled  him  to  respond  to  the  whim  of  a 
girl  whom  he  scarcely  even  respected. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  ROOF 

THE  main  door  of  Lechford  House  was  ajar,  and 
at  the  sound  of  G.  J.'s  footsteps  on  the  marble  of 
the  porch  it  opened.  Robin,  the  secretary,  stood  at 
the  threshold.  Evidently  she  had  been  set  to  wait 
for  him. 

"The  men  servants  are  all  in  the  cellars,"  said  she 
perkily. 

G.  J.  retorted  with  sardonic  bitterness: 

"And  quite  right,  too.  I'm  glad  someone's  got 
some  sense  left." 

Yet  he  did  not  really  admire  the  men  servants  for 
being  in  the  cellars.  Somehow  it  seemed  mean  of 
them  not  to  be  ready  to  take  any  risks,  however  un- 
necessary. 

Robin,  hiding  her  surprise  and  confusion  in  a 
nervous  snigger,  banged  the  heavy  door,  and  led  him 
through  the  halls  and  up  the  staircases.  As  she 
went  forward  she  turned  on  electric  lamps  here  and 
there  in  advance,  turning  them  off  by  the  alternative 
switches  after  she  had  passed  them,  so  that  in  the 
vast,  shadowed,  echoing  interior  the  two  appeared 
to  be  preceded  by  light  and  pursued  by  a  tide  of 
darkness.  She  was  mincingly  feminine,  and  very 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  G.  J.  was  a  fine  gentleman. 

253 


254  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

In  the  afternoon,  and  again  to-night — at  first,  he  had 
taken  her  for  a  mere  girl;  but  as  she  halted  under 
a  lamp  to  hold  a  door  for  him  at  the  entrance  to 
the  upper  stairs,  he  perceived  that  it  must  have  been 
a  long  time  since  she  was  a  girl.  Often  had  he 
warned  himself  that  the  fashion  of  short  skirts  and 
revealed  stockings  gave  a  deceiving  youthfulness  to 
the  middle-aged,  and  yet  nearly  every  day  he  had  to 
learn  the  lesson  afresh. 

He  was  just  expecting  to  be  shown  into  the  bou- 
doir when  Robin  stopped  at  a  very  small  door. 

"Her  ladyship  and  Mrs.  Carlos  Smith  are  out  on 
the  roof.  This  is  the  ladder,"  she  said,  and  illumi- 
nated the  ladder. 

G.  J.  had  no  choice  but  to  mount.  Luckily  he  had 
kept  his  hat.  He  put  it  on.  As  he  climbed  he  felt 
a  slight  recurrence  of  the  pain  in  his  side  which 
he  had  noticed  in  St.  Martin's  Street.  The  roof  was 
a  very  strange,  tempestuous  place,  and  insecure.  He 
had  an  impression  similar  to  that  of  being  at  sea, 
for  the  wind,  which  he  had  scarcely  observed  in  the 
street,  made  melancholy  noises  in  the  new  protective 
wire-netting  that  stretched  over  his  head.  This 
bomb-catching  contrivance,  fastened  on  thick  iron 
stanchions,  formed  a  sort  of  second  roof,  and  was 
a  very  solid  and  elaborate  affair  which  must  have 
cost  much  money.  The  upstreaming  light  from  the 
ladder-shaft  was  suddenly  extinguished.  He  could 
see  nobody,  and  the  loneliness  was  uncomfortable. 

Somehow,  when  Robin  had  announced  that  the 
ladies  were  on  the  roof  he  had  imagined  the  roof 
as  a  large,  flat  expanse.  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind. 


THE  ROOF  255 

So  far  as  he  could  distinguish  in  the  deep  gloom  it 
had  leaden  pathways,  but  on  either  hand  it  sloped 
sharply  up  or  sharply  down.  He  might  have  fallen 
sheer  into  a  chasm,  or  stumbled  against  the  leaden 
side  of  a  slant.  He  descried  a  lofty  construction  of 
carved  masonry  with  an  iron  ladder  clamped  into  it, 
far  transcending  the  net.  Not  immediately  did  he 
comprehend  that  it  was  merely  one  of  the  famous 
Lechford  chimney-stacks  looming  gigantic  in  the 
night.  He  walked  cautiously  onward  and  came  to  a 
precipice  and  drew  back,  startled,  and  took  another 
pathway  at  right  angles  to  the  first  one.  Presently 
the  protective  netting  stopped,  and  he  was  exposed 
to  heaven;  he  had  reached  the  roof  of  the  servants' 
quarters  towards  the  back  of  the  house. 

He  stood  still  and  gazed,  accustoming  himself  to 
the  night.  The  moon  was  concealed,  but  there  were 
patches  of  dim  stars.  He  could  make  out,  across 
the  empty  Green  Park,  the  huge  silhouette  of  Buck- 
ingham Palace,  and  beyond  that  the  tower  of  West- 
minster Cathedral.  To  his  left  he  could  see  part  of 
a  courtyard  or  small  square,  with  a  foreshortened 
black  figure,  no  doubt  a  policeman,  carrying  a  flash- 
lamp.  The  tree-lined  Mall  seemed  to  be  utterly 
deserted.  But  Piccadilly  showed  a  line  of  faint  sta- 
tionary lights  and  still  fainter  moving  lights.  A 
mild  hum  and  the  sounds  of  motor-horns  and  cab- 
whistles  came  from  Piccadilly,  where  people  were 
abroad  in  ignorance  that  the  raid  was  not  really 
over.  All  the  heavens  were  continually  restless  with 
long,  shifting  rays  from  the  anti-aircraft  stations, 


256  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

but  the  rays  served  only  to  prove  the  power  of  dark- 
ness. 

Then  he  heard  quick,  smooth  footsteps.  Two  fig- 
ures, one  behind  the  other,  approached  him,  almost 
running,  eagerly,  girlishly,  with  little  cries.  The 
first  was  Queen,  who  wore  a  white  skirt  and  a  very 
close-fitting  black  jersey.  Concepcion  also  wore  a 
white  skirt  and  a  very  close-fitting  black  jersey,  but 
with  a  long  mantle  hung  loosely  from  the  shoulders. 
Both  were  bareheaded. 

"Isn't  it  splendid,  G.  J.?"  Queen  burst  out  en- 
thusiastically. Again  G.  J.  had  the  sensation  of  be- 
ing at  sea — perhaps  on  the  deck  of  a  yacht.  He 
felt  that  rain  ought  to  have  been  beating  on  the 
face  of  the  excited  and  careless  girl.  Before  answer- 
ing, he  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  overcoat.  Then 
he  said: 

"Won't  you  catch  a  chill?" 

"I'm  never  cold,"  said  Queen.  It  was  true.  "I 
shall  always  come  up  here  for  raids  in  future." 

"You  seem  to  be  enjoying  it." 

"I  love  it.  I  love  it.  I  only  thought  of  it  to-night. 
It's  the  next  best  thing  to  being  a  man  and  being  at 
the  Front.  It  is  being  at  the  Front." 

Her  face  was  little  more  than  a  pale,  featureless 
oval  to  him  in  the  gloom,  but  he  could  divine  from 
the  vibrations  of  her  voice  that  she  was  as  ecstatic 
as  a  young  maid  at  her  first  dance. 

"And  what  about  that  business  interview  that 
you've  just  asked  for  on  the  'phone?"  G.  J.  acidly 
demanded. 

"Oh!     We'll  come  to  that  later.     We  wanted  a 


THE  ROOF  257 

man  here — not  to  save  us,  only  to  save  us  from  our- 
selves— and  you  were  the  best  we  could  think  of, 
wasn't  he,  Con?  But  you've  not  heard  about  my 
next  bazaar,  G.  J.,  have  you?" 

"I  thought  it  was  a  Pageant." 

"I  mean  after  that.  A  bazaar.  I  don't  know  yet 
what  it  will  be  for,  but  I've  got  lots  of  the  most  top- 
ping ideas  for  it.  For  instance,  I'm  going  to  have  a 
First-Aid  Station." 

"What  for?    Air-raid  casualties?" 

Queen  scorned  his  obtuseness,  pouring  out  a  cat- 
aract of  swift  sentences. 

"No.  First-Aid  to  lovely  complexions.  Help  for 
Distressed  Beauties.  I  shall  get  Roger  Fry  to  de-» 
sign  the  Station  and  the  costumes  of  my  attendants. 
It  will  be  marvellous,  and  I  tell  you  there'll  always 
be  a  queue  waiting  for  admittance.  I  shall  have 
all  the  latest  dodges  in  the  sublime  and  fatal  art  of. 
make-up,  and  if  any  of  the  Bond  Street  gang  refuse 
to  help  me  I'll  damn  well  ruin  them.  But  they  won't 
refuse  because  they  know  what  I'll  do.  Gontran 
is  earning  in  with  his  new  steaming  process  for  wav- 
ing. Con,  you  must  try  that.  It's  a  miracle.  Wav- 
ing's  no  good  for  my  style  of  coiffure,  but  it  would 
suit  you.  You  always  wouldn't  wave,  but  you've  got 
to  now,  my  seraph.  The  electric  header  works  in 
sections.  No  danger.  No  inconvenience  to  the  poor 
old  scalp.  The  waves  will  last  for  six  months  or 
more.  It  has  to  be  seen  to  be  believed,  and  even  then 
you  can't  believe  it.  Its  only  fault  is  that  it's  too 
natural  to  be  natural.  But  who  wants  to  be  natural? 
This  modern  craze  for  naturalness  seems  to  me  to  be 


258  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

rather  unwholesome,  not  to  say  perverted.    What?" 

She  seized  G.  J.'s  arm  convulsively. 

Conception  had  said  nothing.  G.  J.  sought  her 
eyes  in  the  darkness,  but  did  not  find  them. 

"So  much  for  the  bazaar!"  he  said. 

Queen  suddenly  cried  aloud: 

"What  is  it,  Robin?  Has  Captain  Brickly  tele- 
phoned?" 

"Yes,  my  lady,"  came  a  voice  faintly  across  the 
gloom  from  the  region  of  the  ladder-shaft. 

"They're  coming!  They'll  be  here  directly!"  ex- 
claimed Queen,  loosing  G.  J.  and  clapping  her  hands. 

G.  J.  thought  of  Robin  affixed  to  the  telephone, 
and  some  scarlet-shouldered  officer  at  the  War  Office 
quitting  duty  for  the  telephone,  in  order  to  keep  the 
capricious  girl  informed  of  military  movements  sim- 
ply because  she  had  taken  the  trouble  to  be  her 
father's  daughter,  and  in  so  doing  had  acquired  the 
right  to  treat  the  imperial  machine  as  one  of  her 
nursery  toys.  And  he  became  unreasonably  annoyed. 

"I  suppose  you  were  cowering  in  your  Club  during 
the  first  Act?"  she  said,  with  vivacity. 

"Yes,"  G.  J.  briefly  answered.  Once  more  he  was 
aware  of  a  strong  instinctive  disinclination  to  relate 
what  had  happened  to  him.  He  was  too  proud  to 
explain,  and  perhaps  too  tired. 

"You  ought  to  have  been  up  here.  They  dropped 
two  bombs  close  to  the  National  Gallery;  pity  they 
couldn't  have  destroyed  a  Landseer  or  two  while 
they  were  so  near !  There  were  either  seven  or  eight 
killed  and  eighteen  wounded,  so  far  as  is  known. 
But  there  were  probably  more.  There  was  quite  a 


THE  ROOF 

fire,  too,  but  that  was  soon  got  under.  We  saw  it 
all  except  the  explosion  of  the  bombs.  We  weren't 
looking  in  the  right  place — no  luck!  However,  we 
saw  the  Zepp.  What  a  shame  the  moon's  disap- 
peared again!  Listen!  Listen!  .  .  .  Can't  you 
hear  the  engines?" 

G.  J.  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Nothing  could 
be  heard  above  the  faint  hum  of  Piccadilly.  The 
wind  seemed  to  have  diminished  to  a  chill,  fitful 
zephyr. 

Concepcion  had  sat  down  on  a  coping. 

"Look!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  startled  whisper,  and 
sprang  erect. 

To  the  south,  down  among  the  trees,  a  red  light 
flashed  and  was  gone.  The  faint,  irregular  hum  of 
Piccadilly  persisted  for  a  couple  of  seconds,  and 
then  was  drowned  in  the  loud  report,  which  seemed 
to  linger  and  wander  in  the  great  open  spaces. 
G.  J.'s  flesh  crept.  He  comprehended  the  mad  ec- 
stacy  of  Queen,  and  because  he  comprehended  it  his 
anger  against  her  increased. 

"Can  you  see  the  Zepp?"  murmured  Queen,  as 
it  were  ferociously.  "It  must  be  within  range,  or 
they  wouldn't  have  fired.  Look  along  the  lines  of 
the  searchlights.  One  of  them,  at  any  rate,  must 
have  got  on  to  it.  We  saw  it  before.  Can't  you 
see  it?  I  can  hear  the  engines,  I  think." 

Another  flash  was  followed  by  another  resound- 
ing report.  More  guns  spoke  in  the  distance.  Then 
a  glare  arose  on  the  southern  horizon. 

"Incendiary  bomb !"  muttered  Queen.  She  stood 
stock  still,  with  her  mouth  open,  entranced. 


260  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

The  Zeppelin  or  the  Zeppelins  remained  invisible 
and  inaudible.  Yet  they  must  be  aloft  there,  some- 
where amid  the  criss-cross  of  the  unresting  search- 
lights. G.  J.  waited,  powerfully  impressed,  incapa- 
ble of  any  direct  action,  gazing  blankly  now  at 
the  women  and  now  at  the  huge  undecipherable 
heaven  and  earth,  and  receiving  the  chill  zephyr  on 
his  face.  The  nearmost  gun  had  ceased  to  fire.  Oc- 
casionally there  was  perfect  silence — for  no  faintest 
hum  came  from  Piccadilly,  and  nothing  seemed  to 
move  there.  The  further  guns  recommenced,  and 
then  the  group  heard  a  new  sound,  rather  like  the 
sound  of  a  worn-out  taxi  accelerating  before  chang- 
ing gear.  It  grew  gradually  louder.  It  grew  very 
loud.  It  seemed  to  be  ripping  the  envelope  of  the 
air.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would  last  for  ever — till  it 
finished  with  a  gigantic  and  intimidating  plop  quite 
near  the  front  of  Lechford  House.  Queen  said: 

"Shrapnel — and  a  big  lump  I" 

G.  J.  could  see  the  quick  heave  of  her  bosom  im- 
prisoned in  the  black.  She  was  breathing  through 
her  nostrils. 

"Come  downstairs  into  the  house,"  he  said  sharply 
— more  than  sharply,  brutally.  "Where  in  the  name 
of  God  is  the  sense  of  stopping  up  here?  Are  you 
both  mad?" 

Queen  laughed  lightly. 

"Oh,  G.  J. !  How  funny  you  are  I  I'm  really 
surprised  you  haven't  left  London  for  good  before 
now.  By  rights  you  ought  to  belong  to  the  Hook- 
it  Brigade.  Do  you  know  what  they  do?  They 
take  a  ticket  to  any  station  north  or  west,  and  when 


THE  ROOF  261 

they  get  out  of  the  train  they  run  to  the  nearest  house 
and  interview  the  tenant.  Has  he  any  accommoda- 
tion to  let  ?  Will  he  take  them  in  as  boarders  ?  Will 
he  take  them  as  paying  guests?  Will  he  let  the 
house  furnished?  Will  he  let  it  unfurnished?  Will 
he  allow  them  to  camp  out  in  the  stables?  Will  he 
sell  the  blooming  house?  So  there  isn't  a  house  to 
be  had  on  the  North  Western  nearer  than  Leighton 
Buzzard." 

"Are  you  going?    Because  I  am,"  said  G.  J. 

Concepcion  murmured: 

"Don't  go." 

"I  shall  go — and  so  will  you,  both  of  you." 

"G.  J.,"  Queen  mocked  him,  "you're  in  a  funk." 

"I've  got  courage  enough  to  go,  anyhow,"  said 
he.  "And  that's  more  than  you  have." 

"You're  losing  your  temper." 

As  a  fact  he  was.  He  grabbed  at  Queen,  but  she 
easily  escaped  him.  He  saw  the  whiteness  of  her 
skirt  in  the  distance  of  the  roof,  dimly  rising.  She 
was  climbing  the  ladder  up  the  side  of  the  chimney. 
She  stood  on  the  top  of  the  chimney  and  laughed 
again.  A  gun  sounded. 

G.  J.  said  no  more.  Using  his  flash-lamp  he 
found  his  way  to  the  ladder-shaft  and  descended. 
He  was  in  the  warm  and  sheltered  interior  of  the 
house;  he  was  in  another  and  a  saner  world.  Robin 
was  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder;  she  blinked  under  his 
lamp. 

"I've  had  enough  of  that,"  he  said,  and  followed 
her  to  the  illuminated  boudoir,  where  after  a  certain 
hesitation  she  left  him.  Alone  in  the  boudoir  he  felt 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

himself  to  be  a  very  shamed  and  futile  person,  and 
he  was  still  extremely  angry.  The  next  moment  Con- 
cepcion entered  the  boudoir. 

"Ah!"  he  murmured,  curiously  appeased. 

"You're  quite  right,"  said  Concepcion  simply. 

He  said: 

"Can  you  give  me  any  reason,  Con,  why  we  should 
make  a  present  of  ourselves  to  the  Hun?" 

Concepcion  repeated: 

"You're  quite  right." 

"Is  she  coming?" 

Concepcion  made  a  negative  sign.  "She  doesn't 
know  what  fear  is,  Queen  doesn't." 

"She  doesn't  know  what  sense  is.  She  ought 
to  be  whipped,  and  if  I  got  hold  of  her  I'd  whip 
her." 

"She'd  like  nothing  better,"  said  Concepcion. 

G.  J.  removed  his  overcoat  and  sat  down. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

IN  THE   BOUDOIR 

"WE  aren't  so  desperately  safe  even  here,"  said 
G.  J.,  firmly  pursuing  the  moral  triumph  which  Con- 
cepcion's  very  surprising  and  comforting  descent 
from  the  roof  had  given  him. 

"Don't  go  to  extremes,"  she  answered. 

"No,  I  won't."  He  thought  of  the  valetry  in  the 
cellars,  and  the  impossible  humiliation  of  joining 
them;  and  added:  "I  merely  state."  Then,  after 
a  moment  of  silence :  "By  the  way,  was  it  only  her 
idea  that  I  should  come  along,  or  did  the  command 
come  from  both  of  you?"  The  suspicion  of  some 
dark,  feminine  conspiracy  revisited  him. 

"It  was  Queen's  idea." 

"Oh!  Well,  I  don't  quite  understand  the  psy- 
chology of  it." 

"Surely  that's  plain." 

"It  isn't  in  the  least  plain." 

Concepcion  loosed  and  dropped  her  cloak,  and* 
not  even  glancing  at  G.  J.,  went  to  the  fire  and  teased 
it  with  the  poker.  Bending  down,  with  one  hand  on 
the  graphic  and  didactic  mantelpiece,  and  staring 
into  the  fire,  she  said  quietly: 

"Queen's  in  love  with  you,  of  course." 

The  words  were  a  genuine  shock  to  his  sarcastic 
263 


264  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

and  rather  embittered  and  bullying  mood.  Was  he 
to  believe  them?  The  vibrant,  uttering  voice  was 
convincing  enough.  Was  he  to  show  the  conven- 
tional incredulity  proper  to  such  an  occasion?  Or 
was  he  to  be  natural,  brutally  natural?  He  was 
drawn  first  to  one  course  and  then  to  the  other,  and 
finally  spoke  at  random,  by  instinct: 

"What  have  I  been  doing  to  deserve  this?" 
Concepcion  replied,  still  looking  into  the  fire : 
"As  far  as  I  can  gather  it  must  be  your  masterful 
ways  at  the  Hospital  Committee  that  have  impressed 
her,  and  especially  your  unheard-of  tyrannical  meth- 
ods with  her  august  mother." 
"I  see.  ...  .    Thanks!" 

It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  treated 
the  Marchioness  tyrannically;  he  treated  her  like 
anybody  else ;  he  now  perceived  that  this  was  to  treat 
her  tyrannically.  His  imagination  leapt  forward  as 
he  gazed  round  the  weird  and  exciting  room  which 
Queen  had  brought  into  existence  for  the  illustra- 
tion of  herself,  and  as  he  pictured  the  slim,  pale 
figure  outside  clinging  in  the  night  to  the  vast  chim- 
ney, and  as  he  listened  to  the  faint  intermittent  thud 
of  far-off  guns,  he  had  a  spasm  of  delicious  tempta- 
tion. He  was  tempted  by  Queen's  connections  and 
her  prospective  wealth.  If  anybody  was  to  possess 
millions  after  the  war,  Queen  would  one  day  possess 
millions.  Her  family  and  her  innumerable  powerful 
relatives  would  be  compelled  to  accept  him  without 
the  slightest  reserve,  for  Queen  issued  edicts;  and 
through  all  those  big  people  he  would  acquire  im- 
mense prestige  and  influence,  which  he  could  use 


IN  THE  BOUDOIR  265 

greatly.  Ambition  flared  up  in  him — ambition  to 
impress  himself  on  his  era.  And  he  reflected  with 
satisfaction  on  the  strangeness  of  the  fact  that  such 
an  opportunity  should  have  come  to  him,  the  son  of 
a  lawyer,  solely  by  virtue  of  his  own  individuality. 
He  thought  of  Christine,  and  poor  little  Christine 
was  shrunk  to  nothing  at  all;  she  was  scarcely  even 
an  object  of  compassion;  she  was  a  prostitute. 

But  far  more  than  by  Queen's  connections  and 
prospective  wealth  he  was  tempted  by  her  youth 
and  beauty;  he  saw  her  beautiful  and  girlish,  and  he 
was  sexually  tempted.  Most  of  all  he  was  tempted 
by  the  desire  to  master  her.  He  saw  again  the  fool- 
ish, elegant,  brilliant  thing  on  the  chimney  pretend- 
ing to  defy  him  and  to  mock  at  him.  And  he  heard 
himself  commanding  sharply :  "Come  down.  Come 
down  and  acknowledge  your  ruler.  Come  down  and 
be  whipped."  (For  had  he  not  been  told  that  she 
would  like  nothing  better?)  And  he  heard  the  West 
End  of  London  and  all  the  country-houses  saying, 
"She  obeys  him  like  a  slave."  He  conceived  a  new 
and  dazzling  environment  for  himself;  and  it  was 
undeniable  that  he  needed  something  of  the  kind,  for 
he  was  growing  lonely;  before  the  war  he  had  lived 
intensely  in  his  younger  friends,  but  the  war  had 
taken  nearly  all  of  them  away  from  him,  many  of 
them  for  ever. 

Then  he  said  in  a  voice  almost  resentfully  satiric, 
and  wondered  why  such  a  tone  should  come  from 
his  lips: 

"Another  of  her  caprices,  no  doubt." 

"What  do  you  mean — another  of  her  caprices?" 


366  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

said  Concepcion,  straightening  herself  and  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece. 

He  had  noticed,  only  a  moment  earlier,  on  the 
mantelpiece,  a  large  photograph  of  the  handsome 
Molder,  with  some  writing  under  it. 

"Well,  what  about  that,  for  example?" 

He  pointed.  Concepcion  glanced  at  him  for  the 
first  time,  and  her  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  his 
finger. 

"That!     I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  while  you  were  gossip* 
ing  till  five  o'clock  this  morning,  you  two,  she  didn't 
mention  it?" 

"She  didn't." 

G.  J.  went  right  on,  murmuring: 

"Wants  to  do  something  unusual.  Wants  to 
astonish  the  town." 

"No!     No  I" 

"Then  you  seriously  tell  me  she's  fallen  in  love 
with  me,  Con?" 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  of  it." 

"Did  she  say  so?" 

There  was  a  sound  outside  the  door.  They  both 
started  like  plotters  in  danger,  and  tried  to  look  as 
if  they  had  been  discussing  the  weather  or  the  war. 
But  no  interruption  occurred. 

"Well,  she  did.  I  know  I  shall  be  thought  mis- 
chievous. If  she  had  the  faintest  notion  I'd  breathed 
the  least  hint  to  you,  she'd  quarrel  with  me  eternally 
— of  course.  I  couldn't  bear  another  quarrel.  If  it 
had  been  anybody  else  but  you  I  wouldn't  have  said 
a  word.  But  you're  different  from  anybody  else. 


IN  THE  BOUDOIR  267 

And  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  don't  know  what  Queen 
is.  Queen's  a  white  woman." 

"So  you  said  this  afternoon." 

"And  so  she  is.  She  has  the  most  curious  and 
interesting  brain,  and  she's  as  straight  as  a  man." 

"I've  never  noticed  it." 

"But  I  know.  I  know.  And  she's  an  exquisite 
companion." 

"And  so  on  and  so  on.  And  I  expect  the  scheme 
is  that  I  am  to  make  love  to  her  and  to  be  worried 
out  of  my  life,  and  then  to  propose  to  her  and  she'll 
accept  me."  The  word  "scheme"  brought  up  again 
his  suspicion  of  a  conspiracy.  Evidently  there  was 
no  conspiracy,  but  there  was  a  plot — of  one.  .  .  . 
A  nervous  breakdown?  Was  Concepcion  merely 
under  an  illusion  that  she  had  had  a  nervous  break- 
down, or  had  she  in  truth  had  one,  and  was  this  singu- 
lar interview  a  result  of  it? 

Concepcion  continued  with  surprising  calm  mag- 
nanimity: 

"I  know  her  mind  is  strange,  but  it's  lovely.  No 
one  but  me  has  ever  seen  into  it.  She's  following 
her  instinct,  unconsciously — as  we  all  do,  you  know. 
And  her  instinct's  right,  in  spite  of  everything.  Her 
instinct's  telling  her  just  now  that  she  needs  a  master. 
And  that's  exactly  what  she  does  need.  We  must 
remember  she's  very  young " 

"Yes,"  G.  J.  interrupted,  bursting  out  with  a  kind 
of  savagery  that  he  could  not  explain.  "Yes.  She's 
young,  and  she  finds  even  my  age  spicy.  There'd 
be  something  quite  amusingly  piquant  for  her  in 
marrying  a  man  nearly  thirty  years  her  senior." 


268  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Concepcion  advanced  towards  him.  There  she 
stood  in  front  of  him,  quite  close  to  his  chair,  gazing 
down  at  him  in  her  tight  black  jersey  and  short  white 
skirt;  she  was  wearing  black  stockings  now.  Her 
serious  face  was  perfectly  unruffled.  And  in  her 
worn  face  was  all  her  experience;  all  the  nights  and 
days  on  the  Clyde  were  in  her  face;  the  scalping  of 
the  young  Glasgow  girl  was  in  her  face,  and  the 
failure  to  endure  either  in  work  or  in  love.  There 
was  complete  silence  within  and  without — not  the 
echo  of  an  echo  of  a  gun.  G.  J.  felt  as  though  he 
were  at  bay. 

She  said: 

"People  like  you  and  Queen  don't  want  to  bother 
about  age.  Neither  of  you  has  any  age.  And 
I'm  not  imploring  you  to  have  her.  I'm  only  telling 
you  that  she's  there  for  you  if  you  want  her.  But 
doesn't  she  attract  you  ?  Isn't  she  positively  irresisti- 
ble?" She  added  with  poignancy:  "I  know  if  I 
were  a  man  I  should  find  her  irresistible." 

"Just  so." 

A  look  of  sacrifice  came  into  Conception's  eyes  as 
she  finished: 

"I'd  do  anything,  anything,  to  make  Queen 
happy." 

"Yes,  you  would,"  retorted  G.  J.  icily,  carried 
away  by  a  ruthless  and  inexorable  impulse.  "You'd 
do  anything  to  make  her  happy  even  for  three 
months.  Yes,  to  make  her  happy  for  three  weeks 
you'd  be  ready  to  ruin  my  whole  life.  I  know  you 
and  Queen."  And  the  mild  image  of  Christine 
formed  in  his  mind,  soothingly,  infinitely,  desirable. 


IN  THE  BOUDOIR  269 

What  balm,  after  the  nerve-racking  contact  of  these 
incalculable  creatures ! 

Concepcion  retired  with  a  gesture  of  the  arm  and 
sat  down  by  the  fire. 

"You're  terrible,  G.  J.,"  she  said  wistfully. 
"Queen  wouldn't  be  thrown  away  on  you,  but  you'd 
be  thrown  away  on  her.  I  admit  it.  I  didn't  think 
you  had  it  in  you.  I  never  saw  a  man  develop  as  you 
have.  Marriage  isn't  for  you.  You  ought  to  roam 
in  the  primeval  forest,  and  take  and  kill." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  G.  J.,  appeased  once  more. 
"Not  a  bit.  .  .  .  But  the  new  relations  of  the  sexes 
aren't  in  my  line." 

"New?  My  poor  boy,  are  you  so  ingenuous  after 
all  ?  There's  nothing  very  new  in  the  relations  of  the 
sexes  that  I  know  of.  They're  much  what  they  were 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  Garden  of  Eden?" 

"I  get  my  information  from  Milton,"  she  replied 
cheerfully,  as  though  much  relieved. 

"Have  you  read  Paradise  Lost,  then,  Con?" 

"I  read  it  all  through  in  my  lodgings.  And  it's 
really  rather  good.  In  fact,  the  remarks  of  Raphael 
to  Adam  in  the  eighth  book — I  think  it  is — are 
still  just  about  the  last  word  on  the  relations  of  the 
sexes. 

"Oft-times  nothing  profits  more 
Than  self-esteem,  grounded  on  just  and  right. 
Well-managed ;  of  that  skill  the  more  thou  know'st 
The  more  she  will  acknowledge  thee  her  head 
And  to  realities  yield  all  her  shows." 


270  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

G.  J.,  marvelling,  exclaimed  with  sudden  enthusi- 
asm: 

"By  Jove!  You're  an  astounding  woman,  Con. 
You  do  me  good!" 

There  was  a  fresh  noise  beyond  the  door,  and 
the  door  opened  and  Robin  rushed  in,  blanched  and 
hysterical,  and  with  her  seemed  to  rush  in  terror. 

"Oh!  Madame!"  she  cried.  "As  there  was  no 
more  firing  I  went  on  to  the  roof,  and  her  lady- 
ship  "  She  covered  her  face  and  sobbed. 

G.  J.  jumped  up. 

"Go  and  see,"  said  Concepcion  in  a  blank  voice, 
not  moving.  "I  can't.  .  .  .  It's  the  message  straight 
from  Potsdam  that's  arrived." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

QUEEN  DEAD 

G.  J.  EMERGED  from  the  crowded  and  malodorous 
Coroner's  Court  with  a  deep  sense  of  the  rigour  and 
the  thoroughness  of  British  justice,  and  especially 
of  its  stolidity. 

There  had  been  four  inquests,  all  upon  the  bodies 
of  air-raid  victims :  a  road-man,  his  wife,  an  orphan 
baby — all  belonging  to  the  thick  central  mass  of  the 
proletariat,  for  a  West  End  slum  had  received  a 
bomb  full  in  the  face — and  Lady  Queenie  Paulle. 
The  policemen  were  stolid;  the  reporters  were  stolid; 
the  proletariat  was  stolid;  the  majority  of  the  wit- 
nesses were  stolid,  and  in  particular  the  representa- 
tives of  various  philanthropic  agencies  who  gave 
the  most  minute  evidence  about  the  habits  and  cir- 
cumstances of  the  slum;  and  the  jurymen  were  very 
stolid,  and  never  more  so  than  when,  with  stubby 
fingers  holding  ancient  pens,  they  had  to  sign  quan- 
tities of  blue  forms  under  the  strict  guidance  of  a 
bare-headed  policeman. 

The  world  of  Queenie's  acquaintances  made  a 
strange,  vivid  contrast  to  this  grey,  grim,  blockish 
world;  and  the  two  worlds  regarded  each  other  with 
the  wonder  and  the  suspicious  resentment  of  for- 
eigners. Queen's  world  came  expecting  to  behave 

271 


272  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

as  at  a  cause  celebre  of,  for  example,  divorce.  Its 
representatives  were  quite  ready  to  tolerate  unpleas- 
ing  contacts  and  long  stretches  of  tedium  in  return 
for  some  glimpse  of  the  squalid  and  the  privilege 
of  being  able  to  say  that  they  had  been  present  at 
the  inquest.  But  most  of  them  had  arrived  rather 
late,  and  they  had  reckoned  without  the  Coroner, 
and  comparatively  few  obtained  even  admittance. 

The  Coroner  had  arrived  on  the  stroke  of  the 
hour,  in  a  silk  hat  and  frock  coat,  with  a  black  bag, 
and  had  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  had  begun  to  rule 
the  proceedings  with  an  absolutism  that  no  High 
Court  Judge  would  have  attempted.  He  was  auto- 
crat in  a  small,  close,  sordid  room ;  but  he  was  auto- 
crat. He  had  already  shown  his  quality  in  some 
indirect  collisions  with  the  Marquis  of  Lechford. 
The  Marquis  felt  that  he  could  not  stomach  the  ex- 
posure of  his  daughter's  corpse  in  a  common  mortu- 
ary with  other  corpses  of  he  knew  not  whom.  Long 
experience  of  the  marquisate  had  taught  him  to  be- 
lieve that  everything  could  be  arranged.  He  found, 
however,  that  this  matter  could  not  be  arranged. 
There  was  no  appeal  from  the  ukase  of  the  Coroner. 
Then  he  wished  to  be  excused  from  giving  evidence, 
since  his  evidence  could  have  no  direct  bearing  on  the 
death.  But  he  was  informed  by  a  mere  clerk,  who 
had  knowledge  of  the  Coroner's  ways,  that  if  he  did 
not  attend  the  inquest  would  probaby  be  adjourned 
for  his  attendance.  The  fact  was,  the  Coroner  had 
appreciated  as  well  as  anybody  that  heaven  and 
the  war  had  sent  him  a  cause  celebre  of  the  first- 
class.  He  saw  himself  the  supreme  being  of  a  unique 


QUEEN  DEAD  273 

assize.  He  saw  his  remarks  reproduced  verbatim 
in  the  papers,  for,  though  localities  might  not  be 
mentioned,  there  was  no  censor's  ban  upon  the  obiter 
dicta  of  coroners.  His  idiosyncrasy  was  that  he  hid 
all  his  enjoyment  in  his  own  breast.  Even  had  he 
had  the  use  of  a  bench  instead  of  a  mere  chair,  he 
would  never  have  allowed  titled  ladies  in  mirific 
black  hats  to  share  it  with  him.  He  was  an  icy 
radical,  sincere,  competent,  conscientious  and  vain. 
He  would  be  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  he  was  a 
disrespecter  of  persons  above  a  certain  social  rank. 
He  said,  "Open  that  window."  And  that  window 
was  opened,  regardless  of  the  identity  of  the  person 
who  might  be  sitting  under  it.  He  said:  "This 
court  is  unhealthily  full.  Admit  no  more."  And 
no  more  could  be  admitted,  though  the  entire  peer- 
age waited  without. 

The  Marquis  had  considered  that  the  inquest  on 
his  daughter  might  be  taken  first.  The  other  three 
cases  were  taken  first,  and,  even  taken  concurrently, 
they  occupied  an  immense  period  of  time.  All  the 
bodies  were,  of  course,  "viewed"  together,  and  the 
absence  of  the  jury  seemed  to  the  Marquis  intermin- 
able; he  thought  the  despicable  tradesmen  were 
gloating  unduly  over  the  damaged  face  of  his  daugh- 
ter. The  Coroner  had  been  marvellously  courteous 
to  the  procession  of  humble  witnesses.  He  could 
not  have  been  more  courteous  to  the  exalted;  and 
he  was  not.  In  the  sight  of  the  Coroner  all  men 
were  equal. 

G.  J.  encountered  him  first.  "I  did  my  best  to 
persuade  her  ladyship  to  come  down,"  said  G.  J.  very 


274.  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

formally.  "I  am  quite  sure  you  did,"  said  the  Coro- 
ner with  the  dryest  politeness.  "And  you  failed." 
The  policeman  had  related  events  from  the  moment 
when  G.  J.  had  fetched  him  in  from  the  street.  The 
policeman  could  remember  everything,  what  every- 
body had  said,  the  positions  of  all  objects,  the  char- 
acteristics and  extent  of  the  wire-netting,  the  exact 
posture  of  the  deceased  girl,  the  exact  minute  of  his 
visit.  He  and  the  Coroner  played  to  each  other 
like  well-rehearsed  actors.  Mrs.  Carlos  Smith's  or- 
deal was  very  brief,  and  the  Coroner  dismissed  her 
with  an  expression  of  sympathy  that  seemed  to  issue 
from  his  mouth  like  carved  granite.  With  the  doc- 
tor alone  the  Coroner  had  become  human;  the  Coro- 
ner also  was  a  doctor.  The  doctor  had  talked  about 
a  relatively  slight  extravasation  of  blood,  and  said 
that  death  had  been  instantaneous.  Said  the  Coro- 
ner: "The  body  was  found  on  the  wire-netting;  it 
had  fallen  from  the  chimney.  In  your  opinion,  was 
the  fall  a  contributory  cause  of  death?"  The  doc- 
tor said,  "No."  "In  your  opinion  death  was  due 
to  an  extremely  small  piece  of  shrapnel  which  struck 
the  deceased's  head  slightly  above  the  left  ear,  en- 
tering the  brain?"  The  doctor  said,  "Yes." 

The  Marquis  of  Lechford  had  to  answer  ques- 
tions as  to  his  parental  relations  with  his  daughter. 
How  long  had  he  been  away  in  the  country?  How 
long  had  the  deceased  been  living  in  Lechford  House 
practically  alone?  How  old  was  his  daughter? 
Had  he  given  any  order  to  the  effect  that  nobody 
was  to  be  on  the  roof  of  his  house  during  an  air- 
raid? Had  he  given  any  orders  at  all  as  to  conduct 


QUEEN  DEAD  275 

during  an  air-raid  ?  The  Coroner  sympathised  deeply 
with  his  lordship's  position,  and  felt  sure  that  his 
lordship  understood  that;  but  his  lordship  would 
also  understand  that  the  policy  of  heads  of  house- 
holds in  regard  to  air-raids  had  more  than  a  domes- 
tic interest — it  had,  one  might  say,  a  national  inter- 
est; and  the  force  of  prominent  example  was  one  of 
the  forces  upon  which  the  Government  counted,  and 
had  the  right  to  count,  for  help  in  the  regulation  of 
public  conduct  in  these  great  crises  of  the  most  gi- 
gantic war  that  the  world  had  ever  seen.  "Now, 
as  to  the  wire-netting,"  had  said  the  Coroner,  leav* 
ing  the  subject  of  the  force  of  example.  He  had  a 
perfect  plan  of  the  wire-netting  in  his  mind.  He 
understood  that  the  chimney-stack  rose  higher  than 
the  wire-netting,  and  that  the  wire-netting  went  round 
the  chimney-stack  at  a  distance  of  a  foot  or  more, 
leaving  room  so  that  a  person  might  climb  up  the 
perpendicular  ladder.  If  a  person  fell  from  the 
top  of  the  chimney-stack  it  was  a  chance  whether 
that  person  fell  on  the  wire-netting,  or  through  the 
space  between  the  wire-netting  and  the  chimney  on 
to  the  roof  itself.  The  jury  doubtless  understood. 
(The  jury,  however,  at  that  instant  had  been  en- 
gaged in  examining  the  bit  of  shrapnel  which  had 
been  extracted  from  the  brain  of  the  only  daughter 
of  a  Marquis.)  The  Coroner  understood  that  the 
wire-netting  did  not  extend  over  the  whole  of  the 
house.  "It  extends  over  all  the  main  part  of  the 
house,"  his  lordship  had  replied.  "But  not  over  the 
back  part  of  the  house?"  His  lordship  agreed. 
"The  servants'  quarters,  probably?"  His  lordship 


276  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

nodded.  The  Coroner  had  said:  "The  wire-net- 
ting does  not  extend  over  the  servants'  quarters,"  in 
a  very  even  voice.  A  faint  hiss  in  court  had  been 
extinguished  by  the  sharp  glare  of  the  Coroner's 
eyes.  His  lordship,  a  thin,  antique  figure,  in  a  long 
cloak  that  none  but  himself  would  have  ventured  to 
wear,  had  stepped  down,  helpless. 

There  had  been  much  signing  of  depositions.  The 
Coroner  had  spoken  of  the  Hague  Convention,  men- 
tioning one  article  by  its  number.  The  jury  as  to 
the  first  three  cases — in  which  the  victims  had  been 
killed  by  bombs — had  returned  a  verdict  of  wilful 
murder  against  the  Kaiser.  The  Coroner,  suppress- 
ing the  applause,  had  agreed  heartily  with  the  ver- 
dict. He  told  the  jury  that  the  fourth  case  was  differ- 
ent, and  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  death  from 
shrapnel.  They  gave  their  sympathy  to  all  the  rela- 
tives, and  added  a  rider  about  the  inadvisability 
of  running  unnecessary  risks,  and  the  Coroner,  once 
more  agreeing  heartily,  had  thereon  made  an  effective 
little  speech  to  a  hushed,  assenting  audience. 

There  were  several  motor-cars  outside.  G.  J. 
signalled  across  the  street  to  the  taxi-man  who  tele- 
phoned every  morning  to  him  for  orders.  He  had 
never  owned  a  motor-car,  and,  because  he  had  no 
ambition  to  drive  himself,  had  never  felt  the  desire 
to  own  one.  The  taxi-man  experienced  some  delay 
in  starting  his  engine.  G.  J.  lit  a  cigarette.  Con- 
cepcion  came  out,  alone.  He  had  expected  her  to 
be  with  the  Marquis,  with  whom  she  had  arrived. 
She  was  dressed  in  mourning.  Only  on  that  day, 
and  once  before — on  the  day  of  her  husband's 


QUEEN  DEAD  277' 

funeral — had  he  seen  her  in  mourning.  She  looked 
now  like  the  widow  she  was.  Nevertheless,  he  had 
not  quite  accustomed  himself  to  the  sight  of  her  in 
mourning. 

"I  wonder  whether  I  can  get  a  taxi?"  she  asked. 

"You  can  have  mine,"  said  he.  "Where  do  you 
want  to  go?" 

She  named  a  disconcerting  address  near  Shep- 
herd's Market 

At  that  moment  a  Press-man  with  a  camera  came 
boldly  up  and  snapped  her.  The  man  had  the  brazen- 
demeanour  of  a  racecourse  tout.  But  Concepcion 
seemed  not  to  mind  at  all,  and  G.  J.  remembered  that 
she  was  deeply  inured  to  publicity.  Her  portrait  had 
already  appeared  in  the  picture  papers  along  with 
that  of  Queen,  but  the  papers  had  deemed  it  neces- 
sary to  remind  a  forgetful  public  that  Mrs.  Carlos 
Smith  was  the  same  lady  as  the  super-celebrated  Con- 
cepcion Iquist.  The  taxi-man  hesitated  for  an  in- 
stant on  hearing  the  address,  but  only  for  an  instant. 
He  had  earned  the  esteem  and  regular  patronage 
of  G.  J.  by  a  curious  hazard.  One  night  G.  J.  had 
hailed  him,  and  the  man  had  said  in  a  flash,  without 
waiting  for  the  fare  to  speak,  "The  Albany,  isn't  it, 
sir?  I  drove  you  home  about  two  months  ago." 
Thenceforward  he  had  been  for  G.  J.  the  perfect 
taxi-man. 

In  the  taxi  Concepcion  said  not  a  word  and  G.  J. 
did  not  disturb  her.  Beneath  his  superficial  melan- 
choly he  was  sustained  by  the  mere  joy  of  being  alive. 
The  common  phenomena  of  the  streets  were  beauti- 
ful to  him.  Concepcion's  calm  and  grieved  vitality 


278  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

seemed  mysteriously  exquisite.  He  had  had  simi- 
lar sensations  while  walking  along  Coventry  Street 
after  his  escape  from  the  explosion  of  the  bomb. 
Fatigue  and  annoyance  and  sorrow  had  extinguished 
them  for  a  time,  but  now  that  the  episode  of  Queen's 
tragedy  was  closed  they  were  born  anew.  Queen, 
the  pathetic  victim  of  the  indiscipline  of  her  own  im- 
pulses, was  gone.  But  he  had  escaped.  He  lived. 
And  life  was  an  affair  miraculous  and  lovely. 

"I  think  I've  been  here  before,"  said  he,  when 
they  got  out  of  the  taxi  in  a  short,  untidy,  indeter- 
minate street  that  was  a  cul-de-sac.  The  prospect 
ended  in  a  garage,  near  which  two  women  chauf- 
feurs were  discussing  a  topic  that  interested  them. 
A  hurdy-gurdy  was  playing  close  by,  and  a  few  rag- 
ged children  stared  at  the  hurdy-gurdy  on  the  end 
of  which  a  baby  was  cradled.  The  fact  that  the 
street  was  midway  between  Curzon  Street  and  Picca- 
dilly, and  almost  within  sight  of  the  monumental 
new  mansion  of  an  American  duchess,  explained  the 
existence  of  the  building  in  front  of  which  the  taxi 
had  stopped.  The  entrance  to  the  flats  was  mean 
and  soiled.  It  repelled,  but  Concepcion  unapologeti- 
cally  led  G.  J.  up  a  flight  of  four  stone  steps  and 
round  a  curve  into  a  little  corridor.  She  halted  at 
a  door  on  the  ground  floor. 

"Yes,"  said  G.  J.  with  admirable  calm,  "I  do  be- 
lieve you've  got  the  very  flat  I  once  looked  at  with 
a  friend  of  mine.  If  I  remember  it  didn't  fill  the 
bill  because  the  tenant  wouldn't  sub-let  it  unfur- 
nished. When  did  you  get  hold  of  this?" 

"Yesterday    afternoon,"    Concepcion    answered. 


QUEEN  DEAD  279 

"Quick  work.  But  these  feats  can  be  accomplished. 
I've  taken  it  for  a  month  only.  Hotels  seem  to  be 
all  full.  I  couldn't  open  my  own  place  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  and  I  didn't  mean  to  stay  on  at  Lech- 
ford  House,  even  if  they'd  asked  me  to." 

G.  J.'s  notion  of  the  vastness  and  safety  of  Lon- 
don had  received  a  shock.  He  was  now  a  very  busy 
man,  and  would  quite  sincerely  have  told  anybody 
who  questioned  him  on  the  point  that  he  hadn't  a 
moment  to  call  his  own.  Nevertheless,  on  the  pre- 
vious morning  he  had  spent  a  considerable  time  in 
searching  for  a  nest  in  which  to  hide  his  Christine 
and  to  create  romance ;  and  he  had  come  to  this  very 
flat.  More,  there  had  been  two  flats  to  let  in  the 
block.  He  had  declined  them — the  better  one  be- 
cause of  the  furniture,  the  worse  because  it  was  im- 
possibly small,  and  both  because  of  the  propinquity 
of  the  garage.  But  supposing  that  he  had  taken 
one  and  Concepcion  the  other  I  He  recoiled  at  the 
thought.  .  .  . 

Concepcion's  new  home,  if  not  impossibly  small, 
was  small,  and  the  immensity  and  abundance  of  the 
furniture  made  it  seem  smaller  than  it  actually  was. 
Each  little  room  had  the  air  of  having  been  fur- 
nished out  of  a  huge  and  expensive  second-hand  em- 
porium. No  single  style  prevailed.  There  were 
big  carved  and  inlaid  antique  cabinets  and  chests, 
big  hanging  crystal  candelabra,  and  big  pictures 
(some  of  them  apparently  family  portraits,  the  rest 
eighteenth-century  flower-pieces)  in  big  gilt  frames, 
with  a  multiplicity  of  occasional  tables  and  bric-a- 
brac.  Gilt  predominated.  The  ornate  cornices  were 


280  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

gilded.  Human  beings  had  to  move  about  like 
dwarfs  on  the  tiny  free  spaces  of  carpet  between 
frowning  cabinetry.  The  taste  and  the  aim  of  the 
author  of  this  home  defied  deduction.  In  the  first 
room  a  charwoman  was  cleaning.  Concepcion  greet- 
ed her  like  a  sister.  In  the  next  room,  whose  win- 
dow gave  on  to  a  blank  wall,  tea  was  laid  for  one 
in  front  of  a  gas-fire.  Concepcion  reached  down  a 
cup  and  saucer  from  a  glazed  cupboard  and  put  a 
match  to  the  spirit-lamp  under  the  kettle. 

"Let  me  see,  the  bedroom's  up  here,  isn't  it?" 
said  G.  J.,  pointing  along  a  passage  that  was  like 
a  tunnel. 

Concepcion,  yielding  to  his  curiosity,  turned  on 
lights  everywhere  and  preceded  him.  The  passage, 
hung  with  massive  canvases,  had  scarcely  more  than 
width  enough  for  G.  J.'s  shoulders.  The  tiny  bed- 
room was  muslined  in  every  conceivable  manner.  It 
had  a  colossal  bed,  surpassing  even  Christine's.  A 
muslined  maid  was  bending  over  some  drapery-shop 
boxes  on  the  floor  and  removing  garments  therefrom. 
Concepcion  greeted  her  like  a  sister.  "Don't  let 
me  disturb  you,  Emily,"  she  said,  and  to  G.  J.,  "Em- 
ily was  poor  Queenie's  maid,  and  she  has  come  to 
me  for  a  little  while."  G.  J.  amicably  nodded. 
Tears  came  suddenly  into  the  maid's  eyes.  G.  J. 
looked  away  and  saw  the  bathroom,  which,  also  well 
muslined,  was  completely  open  to  the  bedroom. 

"Whose  is  this  marvellous  home?"  he  added 
when  they  had  gone  back  to  the  drawing-room. 

"I  think  the  original  tenant  is  the  wife  of  some- 
body who's  interned." 


QUEEN  DEAD  281 

"How  simple  the  explanation  is!"  said  G.  J. 
"But  I  should  never  have  guessed  it." 

They  started  the  tea  in  a  strange  silence.  After 
a  minute  or  two  G.  J.  said: 

"I  mustn't  stay  long." 

"Neither  must  I,"  Concepcion  smiled. 

"Got  to  go  out?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  Concepcion 
said: 

"I'm  going  to  Sarah  Churcher's.  And  as  I  know 
she  has  her  Pageant  Committee  at  five-thirty,  I'd 
better  not  arrive  later  than  five,  had  I?" 

"What  is  there  between  you  and  Lady  Churcher?" 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  offer  to  take  Queen's  place 
on  the  Organising  Committee." 

"Con!"  he  exclaimed  impulsively,  "you  aren't?" 

In  an  instant  the  atmosphere  of  the  little  airless, 
electric-lit,  gas-fumed  apartment  was  charged  with 
a  fluid  that  no  physical  chemistry  could  have  traced. 
Concepcion  said  mildly: 

"I  am.  I  owe  it  to  Queen's  memory  to  take  her 
place  if  I  can.  Of  course  I'm  no  dancer,  but  in  other 
things  I  expect  I  can  make  myself  useful." 

G.  J.  replied  with  equal  mildness : 

"You  aren't  going  to  mix  yourself  up  with  that 
crowd  again — after  all  you've  been  through!  The 
Pageant  business  isn't  good  enough  for  you,  Con, 
and  you  know  it.  You  know  it's  odious." 

She  murmured: 

"I  feel  it's  my  duty.  I  feel  I  owe  it  to  Queen. 
It's  a  sort  of  religion  with  me,  I  expect.  Each  per- 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

son  has  his  own  religion,  and  I  doubt  if  one's  more 
dogmatic  than  another." 

He  was  grieved;  he  had  a  sense  almost  of  out- 
rage. He  hated  to  picture  Concepcion  subduing  her- 
self to  the  horrible  environment  of  the  Pageant  en- 
terprise. But  he  said  nothing  more.  The  silence 
resumed.  They  might  have  conversed,  with  care, 
about  the  inquest,  or  about  the  funeral,  which  was  to 
take  place  at  the  Castle,  in  Cheshire.  Silence,  how- 
ever, suited  them  best. 

"Also  I  thought  you  needed  repose,"  said  G.  J. 
when  Concepcion  broke  the  melancholy  enchantment 
by  rising  to  look  for  cigarettes. 

"I  must  be  allowed  to  work,"  she  answered  after 
a  pause,  putting  a  cigarette  between  her  teeth.  "I 
must  have  something  to  do — unless,  of  course,  you 
want  me  to  go  to  the  bad  altogether." 

It  was  a  remarkable  saying,  but  it  seemed  to  ad- 
mit that  he  was  legitimately  entitled  to  his  critical 
interest  in  her. 

"If  I'd  known  that,"  he  said,  suddenly  inspired, 
"I  should  have  asked  you  to  take  on  something  for 
me."  He  waited;  she  made  no  response,  and  he 
continued:  "I'm  secretary  of  my  small  affair  since 
yesterday.  The  paid  secretary,  a  nice  enough  little 
thing,  has  just  run  off  to  the  Women's  Auxiliary 
Corps  in  France  and  left  me  utterly  in  the  lurch. 
Just  like  domestic  servants,  these  earnest  girl-clerks 
are,  when  it  comes  to  the  point  1  No  imagination. 
Wanted  to  wear  khaki,  and  no  doubt  thought  she 
was  doing  a  splendid  thing.  Never  occurred  to  her 
the  mess  I  should  be  in.  I'd  have  asked  you  to  step 


QUEEN  DEAD  283 

into  the  breach.  You'd  have  been  frightfully  use- 
ful." 

"But  I'm  no  girl-clerk,"  Concepcion  gently  and 
carelessly  protested. 

"Well,  she  wasn't  either.  I  shouldn't  have  want- 
ed you  to  be  a  typist.  We  have  a  typist.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  her  job  needed  a  bit  more  brains  than 
she's  got.  However " 

Another  silence.  G.  J.  rose  to  depart.  Concep- 
cion did  not  stir.  She  said  softly: 

"I  don't  think  anybody  realises  what  Queen's 
death  is  to  me.  Not  even  you."  On  her  face  was 
the  look  of  sacrifice  which  G.  J.  had  seen  there  as 
they  talked  together  in  Queen's  boudoir  during  the 
raid. 

He  thought,  amazed: 

"And  they'd  only  had  about  twenty-four  hours  to- 
gether, and  part  of  that  must  have  been  spent  in 
making  up  their  quarrel!" 

Then  aloud: 

"I  quite  agree.  People  can't  realise  what  they 
haven't  had  to  go  through.  I've  understood  that 
ever  since  I  read  in  the  paper  the  day  before  yes- 
terday that  'two  bombs  fell  close  together  and  one 
immediately  after  the  other'  in  a  certain  quarter 
of  the  West  End.  That  was  all  the  paper  said 
about  those  two  bombs." 

"Why!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"And  I  understood  it  when  poor  old  Queen  gave 
me  some  similar  information  on  the  roof." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  was  between  those  two  bombs  when  they  fell. 


284  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

One  of  'em  blew  me  against  a  house.  I've  been  to 
look  at  the  place  since.  And  I'm  dashed  if  I  myself 
could  realise  then  what  I'd  been  through." 

She  gave  a  little  cry.     Her  face  pleased  him. 

"And  you  weren't  hurt?" 

"I  had  a  pain  in  my  side,  but  it's  gone,"  he  said 
laconically. 

"And  you  never  said  anything  to  us !    Why  not?" 

"Well — there  were  so  many  other  things.  .  .  ." 

"G.  J.,  you're  astounding  1" 

"No,  I'm  not.     I'm  just  myself." 

"And  hasn't  it  upset  your  nerves?" 

"Not  as  far  as  I  can  judge.  Of  course  one  never 
knows,  but  I  think  not.  What  do  you  think?" 

She  offered  no  response.  At  length  she  spoke 
with  queer  emotion: 

"You  remember  that  night  I  said  it  was  a  mes- 
sage direct  from  Potsdam?  Well,  naturally  it 
wasn't.  But  do  you  know  the  thought  that  tortures 
me?  Supposing  the  shrapnel  that  killed  Queen  was 
out  of  a  shell  made  at  my  place  in  Glasgow !  ...  It 
might  have  been.  .  .  .  Supposing  it  was !" 

"Con,"  he  said  firmly,  "I  simply  won't  listen  to 
that  kind  of  talk.  There's  no  excuse  for  it.  Shall  I 
tell  you  what,  more  than  anything  else,  has  made 
me  respect  you  since  Queen  was  killed?  Ninety- 
nine  women  out  of  a  hundred  would  have  managed 
to  remind  me,  quite  illogically  and  quite  inexcusa- 
bly, that  I  was  saying  hard  things  about  poor  old 
Queen  at  the  very  moment  when  she  was  lying  dead 
on  the  roof.  You  didn't.  You  knew  I  was  very 
sorry  about  Queen,  but  you  knew  that  my  feelings 


QUEEN  DEAD  285 

as  to  her  death  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
what  I  happened  to  be  saying  when  she  was  killed. 
You  knew  the  difference  between  sentiment  and  sen- 
timentality. For  God's  sake,  don't  start  wondering 
where  the  shell  was  made." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  saying  nothing,  and  he  sa- 
voured the  intelligence  of  her  weary,  fine,  alert,  com- 
prehending face.  He  did  not  pretend  to  himself  to 
be  able  to  fathom  the  enigmas  of  that  long  glance. 
He  had  again  the  feeling  of  the  splendour  of  what 
it  was  to  be  alive,  to  have  survived.  Just  as  he  was 
leaving  she  said  casually: 

"Very  well.     I'll  do  what  you  want." 

"What  I  want?" 

"I  won't  go  to  Sarah  Churcher's." 

"You  mean  you'll  come  as  assistant  secretary?" 

She  nodded.     "Only  I  don't  need  to  be  paid." 

And  he,  too,  fell  into  a  casual  tone: 

"That's  excellent." 

Thus,  by  this  nonchalance,  they  conspired  to  hide 
from  themselves  the  seriousness  of  that  which  had 
passed  between  them.  The  grotesque,  pretentious 
little  apartment  was  mysteriously  humanised;  it  was 
no  longer  the  reception  room  of  a  furnished  flat  by 
chance  hired  for  a  month;  they  had  lived  in  it. 

She  finished,  eagerly  smiling: 

"I  can  practise  my  religion  just  as  much  with 
you  as  with  Sarah  Churcher,  can't  I?  Queen  was 
on  your  Committee,  too.  Yes,  I  shan't  be  deserting 
her." 

The  remark  disquieted  his  triumph.  That  aspect 
of  the  matter  had  not  occurred  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

COLLAPSE 

LATE  that  same  afternoon  G.  J.,  in  the  absence 
of  the  chairman,  presided  as  honorary  secretary  over 
a  meeting  of  the  executive  committee  of  the  Lech- 
ford  hospitals.  In  the  course  of  the  war  the  com- 
mittee had  changed  its  habitation  more  than  once. 
The  hotel  which  had  at  first  given  it  a  home  had 
long  ago  been  commandeered  by  the  Government 
for  a  new  Government  department,  and  its  hundreds 
of  chambers  were  now  full  of  the  clicking  of  type- 
writers and  the  dictation  of  officially  phrased  corre- 
spondence, and  the  conferences  which  precede  deci- 
sions, and  the  untamed  footsteps  of  messenger-flap- 
pers, and  the  making  of  tea,  and  chatter  about  cine- 
mas, blouses  and  headaches.  Afterwards  the  com- 
mittee had  been  the  guest  of  a  bank  and  of  a  trust 
company,  and  had  for  a  period  even  paid  rent  to  a 
common  landlord.  But  its  object  was  always  to  es- 
cape the  formality  of  rent-paying,  and  it  was  now 
lodged  in  an  untenanted  mansion  belonging  to  a 
viscount  in  a  great  Belgravian  square.  Its  sign  was 
spread  high  across  the  facade;  its  posters  were  in 
the  windows;  and  on  the  door  was  a  notice  such  as 
in  1914  nobody  had  ever  expected  to  see  in  that 

286 


COLLAPSE  287 

quadrangle  of  guarded  sacred  castles:  "Turn  the 
handle  and  walk  in." 

The  mansion,  though  much  later  in  date,  was  built 
precisely  on  the  lines  of  a  typical  Bloomsbury  board- 
ing-house. It  had  the  same  basement,  the  same  gen- 
eral disposition  of  rooms,  the  same  abundance  of 
stairs  and  paucity  of  baths,  the  same  chilly  draughts 
and  primeval  devices  for  heating,  and  the  same  su- 
perb disregard  for  the  convenience  of  servants.  The 
patrons  of  domestic  architecture  had  permitted  ar- 
chitects to  learn  nothing  in  seventy  years  except  that 
chimney-flues  must  be  constructed  so  that  they  could 
be  cleaned  without  exposing  sooty  infants  to  the 
danger  of  suffocation  or  incineration. 

The  committee  sat  on  the  first  floor  in  the  back 
drawing-room,  whose  furniture  consisted  of  a  deal 
table,  windsor  chairs,  a  row  of  hat-pegs,  a  wooden 
box  containing  coal,  half  a  poker,  two  unshaded 
lights;  the  walls,  from  which  all  the  paper  had  been 
torn  off,  were  decorated  with  lists  of  sub-committees, 
posters,  and  rows  of  figures  scrawled  here  and  there 
in  pencil.  The  room  was  divided  from  the  main 
drawing-room  by  the  usual  folding  doors.  The 
smaller  apartment  had  been  chosen  in  the  winter 
because  it  was  somewhat  easier  to  keep  warm  than 
the  other  one.  In  the  main  drawing-room  the  hon- 
orary secretary  camped  himself  at  a  desk  near  the 
fireplace. 

When  the  clock  struck,  G.  J.,  one  of  whose  mo- 
nastic weaknesses  was  a  ritualistic  regard  for  punc- 
tuality, was  in  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  the  table  well  filled  with  members,  for  the  hon- 


288  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

orary  secretary's  harmless  foible  was  known  and 
admitted.  The  table  and  the  chairs,  the  scraping 
of  the  chair  legs  on  the  bare  floor,  the  agenda  pa- 
pers and  the  ornamentation  thereof  by  absent-minded 
pens,  were  the  same  as  in  the  committee's  youth. 
But  the  personnel  of  the  committee  had  greatly 
changed,  and  it  was  enlarged — as  its  scope  had  been 
enlarged.  The  two  Lechford  hospitals  behind  the 
French  lines  were  now  only  a  part  of  the  commit- 
tee's responsibilities.  It  had  a  special  hospital  in 
Paris,  two  convalescent  homes  in  England,  and  an 
important  medical  unit  somewhere  in  Italy.  Finance 
was  becoming  its  chief  anxiety,  for  the  reason  that, 
though  soldiers  had  not  abandoned  in  disgust  the 
practice  of  being  wounded,  philanthropists  were  un- 
questionably showing  signs  of  fatigue.  It  had  col- 
lected money  by  postal  appeals,  by  advertisements, 
by  selling  flags,  by  competing  with  drapers'  shops,  by 
intimidation,  by  ruse  and  guile,  and  by  all  the  other 
recognised  methods.  Of  late  it  had  depended  large- 
ly upon  the  very  wealthy,  and,  to  a  less  extent,  upon 
G.  J.,  who,  having  gradually  constituted  the  commit- 
tee his  hobby,  had  contributed  some  thousands  of 
pounds  from  his  share  of  the  magic  profits  of  the 
Reveille  Company.  Everybody  was  aware  of  the 
immense  importance  of  G.  J.'s  help.  G.  J.  never 
showed  it  in  his  demeanour,  but  the  others  continu- 
ally showed  it  in  theirs.  He  had  acquired  author- 
ity. He  had  also  acquired  the  sure  manner  of  one 
accustomed  to  preside. 

"Before  we  begin  on  the  agenda,"  he  said — and 
as  he  spoke  a  late  member  crept  apologetically  in 


COLLAPSE  289 

and  tiptoed  to  the  heavily  charged  hat  pegs — "I 
would  like  to  mention  about  Miss  Trewas.  Some 
of  you  know  that  through  an  admirable  but  some- 
what disordered  sense  of  patriotism  she  has  left  us 
at  a  moment's  notice.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  my 
friend  Mrs.  Carlos  Smith,  who,  I  may  tell  you,  has 
had  a  very  considerable  experience  of  organisation, 
has  very  kindly  agreed,  subject  of  course  to  the  ap- 
proval of  the  committee,  to  step  temporarily  into  the 
breach.  She  will  be  an  honorary  worker,  like  all  of 
us  here,  and  I  am  sure  that  the  committee  will  feel 
as  grateful  to  her  as  I  do." 

As  there  had  been  smiles  at  the  turn  of  his  phrase 
about  Miss  Trewas,  so  now  there  were  fervent,  al- 
most emotional,  "Hear-hears." 

"Mrs.  Smith,  will  you  please  read  the  minutes  of 
the  last  meeting?" 

Concepcion  was  sitting  at  his  left  hand.  He  kept 
thinking,  "I'm  one  of  those  who  get  things  done." 
Two  hours  ago,  and  the  idea  of  enlisting  her  had 
not  even  occurred  to  him,  and  already  he  had  taken 
her  out  of  her  burrow,  had  brought  her  to  the  offices, 
had  coached  her  in  the  preliminaries  of  her  allotted 
task,  and  had  introduced  several  important  members 
of  the  committee  to  her!  It  was  an  achievement. 

Never  had  the  minutes  been  listened  to  with  such 
attention  as  they  obtained  that  day.  Concepcion  was 
apparently  not  in  the  least  nervous,  and  she  read 
very  well — far  better  than  the  deserter  Miss  Tre- 
was, who  could  not  open  her  mouth  without  bridling. 
Concepcion  held  the  room.  Those  who  had  not 
seen  before  the  celebrated  Concepcion  Iquist  now 


290  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

saw  her  and  sated  their  eyes  upon  her.  She  had  been 
less  a  woman  than  a  legend.  The  romance  of  South 
America  enveloped  her,  and  the  romance  of  her  fa- 
mous and  notorious  uncle,  of  her  triumph  over  the 
West  End,  her  startling  marriage  and  swift  widow- 
ing, her  journey  to  America  and  her  complete  dis- 
appearance, her  attachment  to  Lady  Queenie,  and 
now  her  dramatic  reappearance. 

And  the  sharp  condiment  to  all  this  was  the  gen- 
eral knowledge  of  the  bachelor  G.  J.'s  long  inti- 
macy with  her,  and  of  their  having  both  been  at 
Lechford  House  on  the  night  of  the  raid,  and  both 
been  at  the  inquest  on  the  body  of  Lady  Queenie 
Paulle  on  that  very  day.  But  nobody  could  have 
guessed  from  their  placid  and  self-possessed  de- 
meanour that  either  of  them  had  just  emerged  from 
a  series  of  ordeals.  They  won  a  deep  and  full  re- 
spect. Still,  some  people  ventured  to  have  their  own 
ideas;  and  an  ingenuous  few  were  surprised  to  find 
that  the  legend  was  only  a  woman  after  all,  and  a 
rather  worn  woman,  not  indeed  very  recognisable 
from  her  innumerable  portraits.  Nevertheless  the 
respect  for  the  pair  was  even  increased  when  G.  J. 
broached  the  first  item  on  the  agenda — a  resolution 
of  respectful  sympathy  with  the  Marquis  and  Mar- 
chioness of  Lechford  in  their  bereavement,  of  pro- 
found appreciation  of  the  services  of  Lady  Queenie 
on  the  committee,  and  of  an  intention  to  send  by  the 
chairman  to  the  funeral  a  wreath  to  be  subscribed 
for  by  the  members.  G.  J.  proposed  the  resolution 
himself,  and  it  was  seconded  by  a  lady  and  supported 
by  a  gentleman  whose  speeches  gave  no  hint  that 


COLLAPSE  £91 

Lady  Queenie  had  again  and  again  by  her  caprices 
nearly  driven  the  entire  committee  into  a  lunatic 
asylum  and  had  caused  several  individual  resigna- 
tions. G.  J.  put  the  resolution  without  a  tremor; 
it  was  impressively  carried;  and  Concepcion  wrote 
down  the  terms  of  it  quite  calmly  in  her  secretarial 
notes.  The  performance  of  the  pair  was  marvel- 
lous, and  worthy  of  the  English  race. 

Then  arrived  Sir  Stephen  Bradern.  Sir  Stephen 
was  chairman  of  the  French  Hospitals  Management 
Sub-committee. 

G.  J.  said: 

"Sir  Stephen,  you  are  just  too  late  for  the  reso- 
lution as  to  Lady  Queenie  Paulle." 

"I  deeply  apologise,  Mr.  Chairman,"  replied  the 
aged  but  active  Sir  Stephen,  nervously  stroking  his 
rather  long  beard.  "I  hope,  however,  that  I  may  be 
allowed  to  associate  myself  very  closely  with  the 
resolution."  After  a  suitable  pause  and  general  si- 
lence he  went  on :  "I've  been  detained  by  that  Nurse 
Smaith  that  my  sub-committee's  been  having  trouble 
with.  You'll  find,  when  you  come  to  them,  that  she's 
on  my  sub-committee's  minutes.  I've  just  had  an 
interview  with  her,  and  she  says  she  wants  to  see  the 
executive.  I  don't  know  what  you  think,  Mr.  Chair- 
man  "  He  stopped. 

G.  J.  smiled. 

"I  should  have  her  brought  in,"  said  the  lady 
who  had  previously  spoken.  "If  I  might  suggest," 
she  added. 

A  boy  scout,  who  seemed  to  have  long  ago 
grown  out  of  his  uniform,  entered  with  a  note  for 


292  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

somebody.     He  was  told  to  bring  in  Nurse  Smaith. 

She  proved  to  be  a  rather  short  and  rather 
podgy  woman,  with  a  reddish,  not  rosy,  complexion, 
and  red  hair.  The  ugly  red-bordered  cape  of  the 
British  Red  Cross  did  not  suit  her  better  than  it 
suited  any  other  wearer.  She  was  in  full,  strict, 
starched  uniform,  and  prominently  wore  medals  on 
her  plenteous  breast.  She  looked  as  though,  if  she 
had  a  sister,  that  sister  might  be  employed  in  a 
large  draper's  shop  at  Brixton  or  Islington.  In 
saying  "Gid  ahfternoon"  she  revealed  the  purity  of 
a  cockney  accent  undefiled  by  Continental  experi- 
ences. She  sat  down  in  a  manner  sternly  defensive. 
She  was  nervous  and  abashed,  but  evidently  dan- 
gerous. She  belonged  to  the  type  which  is  cour- 
ageous in  spite  of  fear.  She  had  resolved  to  inter- 
view the  committee,  and  though  the  ordeal  fright- 
ened her,  she  desperately  and  triumphantly  wel- 
comed it. 

"Now,  Nurse  Smaith,"  said  G.  J.  diplomatically. 
"We  are  always  very  glad  to  see  our  nurses,  even 
when  our  time  is  limited.  Will  you  kindly  tell  the 
committee  as  briefly  as  possible  just  what  your  claim 
is?" 

And  the  nurse  replied,  with  medals  shaking: 

"I'm  claiming,  as  I've  said  before,  two  weeks' 
salary  in  loo  of  notice,  and  my  fare  home  from 
France;  twenty-five  francs  salary  and  ninety-five 
francs  expenses.  And  I  sy  nothing  of  excess  lug- 
gage." 

"But  you  didn't  come  home." 

"I  have  come  home,  though." 


COLLAPSE  293 

One  of  those  members  whose  destiny  it  is  al- 
ways to  put  a  committee  in  the  wrong  remarked: 

"But  surely,  nurse,  you  left  our  employ  nearly 
a  year  ago.  Why  didn't  you  claim  before?" 

"I've  been  at  you  for  two  months  at  least,  and 
I  was  ill  for  six  months  in  Turin;  they  had  to  put 
me  off  the  train  there,"  said  Nurse  Smaith,  getting 
self-confidence. 

"As  I  understand,"  said  G.  J.  "You  left  us  in 
order  to  join  a  Serbian  unit  of  another  society,  and 
you  returned  to  England  only  in  February." 

"I  didn't  leave  you,  sir.  That  is,  I  mean,  I  left 
you,  but  I  was  told  to  go." 

"Who  told  you  to  go?" 

"Matron." 

Sir  Stephen  benevolently  put  in: 

"But  the  matron  has  always  informed  us  that 
it  was  you  who  said  you  wouldn't  stay  another  min- 
ute. We  have  it  in  the  correspondence.'' 

"That's  what  she  says.  But  I  sy  different.  And 
I  can  prove  it»" 

Said  G.  J. : 

"There  must  be  some  misunderstanding.  We 
have  every  confidence  in  the  matron,  and  she's  still 
with  us." 

"Then  I'm  sorry  for  you." 

He  turned  warily  to  another  aspect  of  the  sub- 
ject. 

"Do  I  gather  that  you  went  straight  from  Paris 
to  Serbia?" 

"Yes.  The  unit  was  passing  through,  and  I 
joined  it." 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"But  how  did  you  obtain  your  passport?  You 
had  no  certificate  from  us?" 

Nurse  Smaith  tossed  her  perilous  red  hair. 

"Oh  I  No  difficulty  about  that.  I  am  not  with- 
out friends,  as  you  may  say."  Some  of  the  commit- 
tee looked  up  suspiciously,  aware  that  the  matron 
had  in  her  report  hinted  at  mysterious  relations 
between  Nurse  Smaith  and  certain  authorities. 
"The  doctor  in  charge  of  the  Serbian  unit  was  only 
too  glad  to  have  me.  Of  course,  if  you're  going  to 

believe  everything  matron  says "  Her  tone  was 

becoming  coarser,  but  the  committee  could  neither 
turn  her  out  nor  cure  her  natural  coarseness,  nor 
indicate  to  her  that  she  was  not  using  the  demeanour 
of  committee-rooms.  She  was  firmly  lodged  among 
them,  and  she  went  from  bad  to  worse.  "Of  course, 
if  you're  going  to  swallow  everything  matron 
says !  It  isn't  as  if  I  was  the  only  one." 

"May  I  ask  if  you  are  at  present  employed?" 

"I  don't  quite  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  it," 
said  Nurse  Smaith,  still  gaining  ground. 

"Certainly  not.  Nothing.  Nothing  at  all.  I  was 
only  hoping  that  these  visits  here  are  not  incon- 
venient to  you." 

"Well,  as  it  seems  so  important,  I  my  sy  I'm 
going  out  to  Salonika  next  week,  and  that's  why  I 
want  this  business  settled."  She  stopped,  and  as  the 
committee  remained  diffidently  and  apprehensively 
silent,  she  went  on:  "It  isn't  as  if  I  was  the  only  one. 
Why!  When  we  were  in  the  retreat  of  the  Serbian 
Army  owver  the  mahntains  I  came  across  by  chance, 
if  you  call  it  chance,  another  nurse  that  knew  all 


COLLAPSE  295 

about  her — been  under  her  in  Bristol  for  a  year." 
A  young  member,  pricking  up,  asked : 
"Were  you  in  the  Serbian  retreat,  Nurse?" 
"If  I  hadn't  been  I  shouldn't  be  here  now,"  said 
Nurse  Smaith,  entirely  recovered  from  her  stage- 
fright  and  entirely  pleased  to  be  there  then.  "I 
lost  all  I  had  at  Ypek.  All  I  took  was  my  medals, 
and  them  I  did  take.  There  were  fifty  of  us,  British, 
French  and  Russians.  We  had  nearly  three  weeks 
in  the  mahntains.  We  slept  rough  all  together  in 
one  room,  when  there  was  a  room,  and  when  there 
wasn't  we  slept  in  stables.  We  had  nothing  but 
black  bread,  and  that  froze  in  the  haversacks,  and 
if  we  took  our  boots  off  we  had  to  thaw  them  the 
next  morning  before  we  could  put  them  on.  If  we 
hadn't  had  three  saucepans  we  should  have  died. 
When  we  went  dahn  the  hills  two  of  us  had  to  hold 
every  horse  by  his  head  and  tail  to  keep  them  from 
falling.  However,  nearly  all  the  horses  died,  and 
then  we  took  the  packs  off  them  and  dried  to  drag 
the  packs  along  by  hand ;  but  we  soon  stopped  that. 
All  the  bridle-paths  were  littered  with  dead  horses 
and  oxen.  And  when  we  came  up  with  the  Serbian 
Army  we  saw  soldiers  just  drop  down  and  die  in 
the  snow.  I  read  in  the  paper  there  were  no 
Children  in  the  retreat,  but  I  saw  lots  of  children, 
strapped  to  their  mothers'  backs.  Yes;  and  they 
fell  down  together  and  froze  to  death.  Then  we 
got  to  Scutari,  and  glad  I  was." 

She  glanced  round  defiantly,  but  not  otherwise 
moved,  at  the  committee,  the  hitherto  invisible  gods 
of  hospitals  and  medical  units.  The  nipping  wind 


296  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

of  reality  had  blown  into  the  back  drawing  room. 

The  committee  was  daunted.  But  some  of  its 
members,  less  daunted  than  the  rest,  had  the  pres- 
ence of  mind  to  wonder  why  it  seemed  strange  and 
strangely  chilling  that  a  rather  coarse,  stout  woman 
with  a  cockney  accent  and  little  social  refinement 
should  have  passed  through,  and  emerged  so  suc- 
cessfully from,  the  unimaginable  retreat.  If  Nurse 
Smaith  had  been  beautiful  and  slim  and  of  elegant 
manners  they  could  not  have  controlled  their  chiv- 
alrous enthusiasm. 

"Very  interesting,"  said  someone. 

Glancing  at  G.  J.,  Nurse  Smaith  proceeded: 

"You  sy  I  didn't  come  home.  But  the  money 
for  my  journey  was  due  to  me.  That's  what  I  sy. 
Twenty-five  francs  for  two  weeks'  wages  and  ninety- 
five  francs  journey  money." 

"As  regards  the  journey  money,"  observed  Sir 
Stephen  blandly,  "we've  never  paid  so  much,  if  my 
recollection  serves  me.  And  of  course  we  have  to 
remember  that  we're  dealing  with  public  funds." 

Nurse  Smaith  sprang  up,  looking  fixedly  at  Con- 
cepcion.  Concepcion  had  thrown  herself  back  in 
her  chair,  and  her  face  was  so  drawn  that  it  was 
no  more  the  same  face. 

"Even  if  it  is  public  funds,"  Concepcion  shrieked, 
"can't  you  give  ninety-five  francs  in  memory  of  those 
three  saucepans?"  Then  she  relapsed  on  to  the 
table,  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  violently, 
very  violently.  The  sobs  rose  and  fell  in  the  scale, 
and  the  whole  body  quaked. 

G.  J.  jumped  to  his  feet.    Half  the  shocked  and 


COLLAPSE  297 

alarmed  committee  was  on  its  feet.  Nurse  Smaith 
had  run  round  to  Concepcion  and  had  seized  her 
with  a  persuasive,  soothing  gesture.  Concepcion 
quite  submissively  allowed  herself  to  be  led  out  of 
the  room  by  Nurse  Smaith  and  Sir  Stephen.  Her 
sobs  weakened,  and  when  the  door  was  closed  could 
no  longer  be  heard.  A  lady  member  had  followed 
the  three.  The  committee  was  positively  staggered 
by  the  unprecedented  affair.  G.  J.,  very  pale,  said: 

"Mrs.  Smith  is  in  competent  hands.  We  can't 
do  anything.  I  think  we  had  better  sit  down."  He 
was  obeyed. 

A  second  doctor  on  the  committee  remarked  with 
a  curious  slight  smile: 

"I  said  to  myself  when  I  first  saw  her  this  after- 
noon that  Mrs.  Smith  had  some  of  the  symptoms 
of  a  nervous  breakdown." 

"Yes,"  G.  J.  concurred.  "I  very  much  regret 
that  I  allowed  Mrs.  Smith  to  come.  But  she  was 
determined  to  work,  and  she  seemed  perfectly  calm 
and  collected.  I  very  much  regret  it." 

Then,  to  hide  his  constraint,  he  pulled  towards 
him  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  Concepcion  had 
been  making  notes,  and,  remembering  that  a  list  of 
members  present  had  always  to  be  kept,  he  began 
to  write  down  names.  He  was  extremely  angry  with 
himself.  He  had  tried  Concepcion  too  high.  He 
ought  to  have  known  that  all  women  were  the  same. 
He  had  behaved  like  an  impulsive  fool.  He  had 
been  ridiculous  before  the  committee.  What  should 
have  been  a  triumph  was  a  disaster.  The  commit- 
tee would  bind  their  two  names  together.  And  at 


298  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

the  conclusion  of  the  meeting  news  of  the  affair 
would  radiate  from  the  committee's  offices  in  every 
direction  throughout  London.  And  he  had  been  un- 
fair to  Concepcion.  Their  relations  would  be  end- 
lessly complicated  by  the  episode.  He  foresaw 
trying  scenes,  in  which  she  would  make  all  the  ex- 
cuses, between  her  and  himself. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  simpler  if  we  decided  to 
admit  Nurse  Smaith's  claim,"  said  a  timid  voice 
from  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

G.  J.  murmured  coldly,  gazing  at  the  agenda 
paper  and  yet  dominating  his  committee : 

"The  question  will  come  up  on  the  minutes  of  the 
Hospitals  management  Sub-committee.  We  had 
better  deal  with  it  then.  The  next  business  on 
the  agenda  is  the  letter  from  the  Paris  Service  de 
Sante." 

He  was  thinking:  "How  is  she  now?  Ought 
I  to  go  out  and  see?"  And  the  majority  of  the 
committee  was  vaguely  thinking,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain pleasurable  malice:  "These  Society  women  1 
They're  all  queer!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  INVISIBLE  POWERS 

SEVERAL  times  already  the  rumour  had  spread  in 
the  Promenade  that  the  Promenade  would  be  closed 
on  a  certain  date,  and  the  Promenade  had  not  been 
closed.  But  to-night  it  was  stated  that  the  Prome- 
nade would  be  closed  at  the  end  of  the  week,  and 
everybody  concerned  knew  that  the  prophecy  would 
come  true.  No  official  notice  was  issued,  no  person 
who  repeated  the  tale  could  give  a  reliable  authority 
for  it;  nevertheless,  for  some  mysterious  reason  it 
convinced.  The  rival  Promenade  had  already 
passed  away.  The  high  invisible  powers  who  ruled 
the  world  of  pleasure  were  moving  at  the  behest  of 
powers  still  higher  than  themselves;  and  the  cloak- 
room attendants,  in  their  frivolous  tiny  aprons, 
shared  murmuringly  behind  plush  portieres  in  the 
woe  of  the  ladies  with  large  hats. 

The  revue  being  a  failure,  the  auditorium  was 
more  than  half  empty.  In  the  Promenade  to  each 
man  there  were  at  least  five  pretty  ladies,  and  the 
ladies  looked  gloomily  across  many  rows  of  vacant 
seats  at  the  bright  proscenium  where  jocularities 
of  an  exacerbating  tedium  were  being  enacted.  Not 
that  the  jocularities  were  inane  beyond  the  usual, 
but  failure  made  them  seem  so.  None  had  the 

299 


SOO  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

slightest  idea  why  the  revue  had  failed;  for  pre- 
cisely similar  revues,  concocted  according  to  the 
same  recipe  and  full  of  the  same  jocularities,  exe- 
cuted by  the  same  players  at  the  same  salaries,  had 
crowded  the  theatre  for  many  months  together.  It 
was  an  incomprehensible  universe. 

Christine  suddenly  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
walked  out.  What  use  in  staying  to  the  end? 

It  was  long  after  ten  o'clock,  and  an  exquisite 
faint  light  lingering  in  the  sky  still  revealed  the  fea- 
tures of  the  people  in  the  streets.  The  man  who 
had  devoted  half  a  life  to  the  ingenious  project  of 
lengthening  the  summer  days  by  altering  clocks  was 
in  his  disappointed  grave;  but  victory  had  come  to 
him  there,  for  statesmen  had  at  last  proved  the 
possibility  of  that  which  they  had  always  maintained 
to  be  impossible,  and  the  wisdom  of  that  which  they 
had  always  maintained  to  be  idiotic.  The  voluptu- 
ous divine  melancholy  of  evening  June  descended 
upon  the  city  from  the  sky,  and  even  sounds  were 
beautifully  sad.  The  happy  progress  of  the  war 
could  not  exorcise  this  soft,  omnipotent  melancholy. 
Yet  the  progress  of  the  war  was  nearly  all  that 
could  be  desired.  Verdun  was  held,  and  if  Fort 
Vaux  had  been  lost  there  had  been  compensation 
in  the  fact  that  the  enemy,  through  the  gesture  of 
the  Crown  Prince  in  allowing  the  captured  com- 
mander of  the  fort  to  retain  his  sword,  had  done 
something  to  rehabilitate  themselves  in  the  esteem 
of  mankind.  Lord  Kitchener  was  drowned,  but  the 
discovery  had  been  announced  that  he  was  not  in- 
dispensable ;  indeed,  there  were  those  who  said  that 


THE  INVISIBLE  POWERS  301 

it  was  better  thus.  The  Easter  Rebellion  was  well 
in  hand;  order  was  understood  to  reign  in  an  Ire- 
land hidden  behind  the  black  veil  of  the  censor- 
ship. The  mighty  naval  battle  of  Jutland  had  quick- 
ly transformed  itself  from  a  defeat  into  a  brilliant 
triumph.  The  disturbing  prices  of  food  were  about 
to  be  reduced  by  means  of  a  committee.  In  Amer- 
ica the  Republican  forces  were  preparing  to  eject 
President  Wilson  in  favour  of  another  Hughes  who 
could  be  counted  upon  to  realise  the  world-destiny 
of  the  United  States.  An  economic  conference  was 
assembling  in  Paris  with  the  object  of  cutting  Ger- 
many off  from  the  rest  of  the  human  race  after  the 
war.  And  in  eleven  days  the  Russians  had  made 
prisoners  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  Austrians, 
and  Brusiloff  had  just  said:  "This  is  only  the  begin- 
ning." Lastly  the  close  prospect  of  the  resistless 
Allied  Western  offensive  which  would  deracinate 
Prussian  militarism  was  uplifting  men's  minds. 

Christine  walked  nonchalantly  and  uninvitingly 
through  the  streets,  quite  unresponsive  to  the  ex- 
hilaration of  events. 

"Marthe!"  she  called,  when  she  had  let  herself 
into  the  flat.  Contrary  to  orders,  the  little  hall  was 
in  darkness.  There  was  no  answer.  She  lit  the 
hall  and  passed  into  the  kitchen,  lighting  it  also. 
There,  in  the  terrible  and  incurable  squalor  of  Mar- 
the's  own  kitchen,  Marthe's  apron  was  thrown  un- 
tidily across  the  back  of  the  solitary  windsor  chair. 
She  knew  then  that  Marthe  had  gone  out,  and  in 
truth,  although  very  annoyed,  she  was  not  altogether 
surprised. 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

Marthe  had  a  mysterious  love  affair.  It  was 
astonishing,  in  view  of  the  intensely  aphrodisiacal 
atmosphere  in  which  she  lived,  that  Marthe  did  not 
continually  have  love  affairs.  But  the  day  of  love 
had  seemed  for  Marthe  to  be  over,  and  Christine 
found  great  difficulty  in  getting  her  ever  to  leave 
the  flat,  save  on  necessary  household  errands.  On 
the  other  hand  it  was  astonishing  that  any  man 
should  be  attracted  by  the  fat  slattern.  The  moth 
now  fluttering  round  her  was  an  Italian  waiter,  as 
to  whom  Christine  had  learnt  that  he  was  being 
unjustly  hunted  by  the  Italian  military  authorities. 
Hence  the  mystery  necessarily  attaching  to  the  love 
affair.  Being  French,  Christine  despised  him.  He 
called  Marthe  by  her  right  name  of  "Marta,"  and 
Christine  had  more  than  once  heard  the  pair  gab- 
bling in  the  kitchen  in  Italian.  Just  as  though  she 
had  been  a  conventional  bonrgeoise  Christine  now 
accused  Marthe  of  ingratitude  because  the  woman 
was  subordinating  Christine's  convenience  to  the  su- 
preme exigencies  of  fate.  A  man's  freedom  might 
be  in  the  balance,  Marthe's  future  might  be  in  the 
balance;  but  supposing  that  Christine  had  come 
home  with  a  gallant — and  no  femme  de  chambre  to 
do  service ! 

She  walked  about  the  flat,  shut  the  windows,  drew 
the  blinds,  removed  her  hat, 'removed  her  gloves, 
stretched  them,  put  her  things  away;  she  gazed  at 
the  two  principal  rooms,  at  the  soiled  numbers  of 
La  Vie  Parisienne  and  the  cracked  bric-a-brac  in  the 
drawing-room,  at  the  rent  in  the  lace  bedcover,  and 
the  foul  mess  of  toilet  apparatus  in  the  bedroom. 


THE  INVISIBLE  POWERS  303 

The  forlorn  emptiness  of  the  place  appalled  her. 
She  had  been  quite  fairly  successful  in  her  London 
career.  Hundreds  of  men  had  caressed  her  and  had 
paid  her  with  compliments  and  sweets  and  money. 
She  had  been  really  admired.  The  flat  had  had  gay 
hours.  Unmistakable  aristocrats  had  yielded  to 
her.  And  she  had  escaped  the  five  scourges  of  her 
profession.  .  .  . 

It  was  all  over.  The  chapter  was  closed.  She 
saw  nothing  in  front  of  her  but  decline  and  ruin. 
She  had  escaped  the  five  scourges  of  her  profession, 
but  part  of  the  price  of  this  immunity  was  that 
through  keeping  herself  to  herself  she  had  not  a 
friend.  Despite  her  profession,  and  because  of  the 
prudence  with  which  she  exercised  it,  she  was  a 
solitary,  a  recluse. 

Yes,  of  course  she  had  Gilbert.  She  could  count 
upon  Gilbert  to  a  certain  extent,  to  a  considerable 
extent;  but  he  would  not  be  eternal,  and  his  fancy 
for  her  would  not  be  eternal.  Once,  before  Easter, 
she  had  had  the  idea  that  he  meant  to  suggest  to  her 
an  exclusive  liaison.  Foolish!  Nothing,  less  than 
nothing,  had  come  of  it.  He  would  not  be  such  an 
imbecile  as  to  suggest  such  a  thing  to  her.  Miracles 
did  not  happen,  at  any  rate  not  that  kind  of  miracle. 

In  the  midst  of  her  desolation  an  old  persistent 
dream  revisited  her:  the  dream  of  a  small  country 
cottage  in  France,  with  a  dog,  a  faithful  servant, 
respectability,  good  name,  works  of  charity,  her 
own  praying-stool  in  the  village  church.  She  moved 
to  the  wardrobe  and  unlocked  one  of  the  drawers 
beneath  the  wide  doors.  And  rummaging  under  the 


SO*  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

linen  and  under  the  photographs  under  the  linen 
she  drew  forth  a  package  and  spread  its  contents 
on  the  table  in  the  drawing-room.  Her  securities, 
her  bonds  of  the  city  of  Paris,  ever  increasing! 
Gilbert  had  tried  to  induce  her  to  accept  more  at- 
tractive investments.  But  she  would  not.  Never! 
These  were  her  consols,  part  of  her  religion.  Bonds 
of  the  city  of  Paris  had  fallen  in  value,  but  not  in 
her  dogmatic  esteem.  The  passionate  little  miser 
that  was  in  her  surveyed  them  with  pleasure,  even 
with  assurance;  but  they  were  still  far  too  few  to 
stand  for  the  realisation  of  her  dream.  And  she 
might  have  to  sell  some  of  them  soon  in  order  to 
live.  She  replaced  them  carefully  in  the  drawer 
with  dejection  unabated. 

When  she  glanced  at  the  table  again  she  saw  an 
envelope.  Inexplicably  she  had  not  noticed  it  be- 
fore. She  seized  it  in  hope — and  recognised  in  the 
address  the  curious  hand  of  her  landlord.  It  con- 
tained a  week's  notice  to  quit.  The  tenancy  of  the 
flat  was  weekly.  This  was  the  last  blow.  All  the 
invisible  powers  of  London  were  conspiring  together 
to  shatter  the  profession.  What  in  the  name  of  the 
Holy  Virgin  had  come  over  the  astounding,  incom- 
prehensible city?  Then  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell. 
Marthe?  No,  Marthe  would  never  ring;  she  had 
a  key  and  she  would  creep  in.  A  lover?  A  rich, 
spendthrift,  kind  lover?  Hope  flickered  anew  in 
her  desolated  heart. 

It  was  the  other  pretty  lady — a  newcomer — who 
lived  in  the  house :  a  rather  stylish  woman  of  about 
thirty-five,  unusually  fair,  with  regular  features  and 


THE  INVISIBLE  POWERS  805 

a  very  dignified  carriage,  indeed  not  unimposing. 
They  had  met  once,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Chris- 
tine was  not  sure  of  her  name.  She  proclaimed 
herself  to  be  Russian,  but  Christine  doubted  the  as- 
sertion. Her  French  had  no  trace  of  a  foreign  ac- 
cent; and  in  view  of  the  achievements  of  the  Rus- 
sian Army  ladies  were  finding  it  advantageous  to  be 
of  Russian  blood.  Still  she  had  a  fine  cosmopolitan 
air  to  which  Christine  could  not  pretend.  They  en- 
gaged each  other  in  glances. 

"I  hope  I  do  not  disturb  you,  madame." 

"Not  at  all,  madame.  I  am  obliged  to  open  the 
door  myself  because  my  servant  is  out." 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  come  in,  and  so " 

"No,"  interrupted  Christine,  determined  not  to 
admit  the  defeat  of  having  returned  from  the  Prom- 
enade alone.  "I  have  not  been  out.  Probably  it 
was  my  servant  you  heard." 

"Ah  I  .  .  .  Without  doubt." 

"Will  you  give  yourself  the  trouble  to  enter, 
madame?" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  Russian,  in  the  sitting  room. 
"You  will  excuse  me,  madame,  but  what  a  beauti- 
ful photograph!" 

"You  are  too  amiable,  madame.  A  friend  had  it 
done  for  me." 

They  sat  down. 

"You  are  deliciously  installed  here,"  said  the  Rus- 
sian perfunctorily,  looking  round.  "Now,  madame, 
I  have  been  here  only  three  weeks.  And  to-night  I 
receive  a  notice  to  quit.  Shall  I  be  indiscreet  if  I 
ask  if  you  have  received  a  similar  notice?" 


606  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"This  very  evening,"  said  Christine,  in  secret 
still  more  disconcerted  by  this  further  proof  of  a 
general  plot  against  human  nature.  She  was  about 
to  add:  "I  found  it  here  on  my  return  home,"  but, 
remembering  her  fib,  managed  to  stop  in  time. 

"Well,  madame,  I  know  little  of  London.  With- 
out doubt  you  know  London  to  the  bottom.  Is  it 
serious,  this  notice?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Quite  serious?" 

Christine  said: 

"You  see,  there  is  a  crisis.  It  is  the  war  that 
in  London  has  led  to  the  discovery  that  men  have 
desires.  Of  course,  it  will  pass,  but " 

"Oh,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  it  is  grotesque,  this 
crisis." 

"It  is  perfectly  grotesque,"  Christine  agreed. 

"You  do  not  by  hazard  know  where  one  can  find 
flats  to  let?  I  hear  speak  of  Bloomsbury  and  of 

Long  Acre.     But  it  seems  to  me  that  those  quar- 

f~rc '» 

ters 

"I  am  in  London  since  now  more  than  eighteen 
months,"  said  Christine.  "And  as  for  all  those 
things  I  know  little.  I  have  lived  here  in  this  flat 
all  the  time,  and  I  go  out  so  rarely " 

The  Russian  put  in  with  eagerness : 

"Oh,  I  also !    I  go  out,  so  to  speak,  not  at  all." 

"I  thought  I  had  seen  you  once  in  the  Promenade 
at  the  " 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  interrupted  the  Russian  quickly. 
"I  went  from  curiosity,  for  distraction.  You  see, 
since  the  war  I  have  lived  in  Dublin.  I  had  there 


THE  INVISIBLE  POWERS  307 

a  friend,  very  highly  placed  in  the  administration. 
He  married.  One  lived  terrible  hours  during  the 
revolt.  I  decided  to  come  to  London,  especially 

as However,  I  do  not  wish  to  fatigue  you  with 

all  that." 

Christine  said  nothing.  The  Irish  Rebellion  did 
not  interest  her.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  talking 
about  the  Irish  Rebellion.  She  had  convinced  her- 
self that  all  Sinn  Feiners  were  in  German  pay,  and 
naught  else  mattered.  Never,  she  thought,  had  the 
British  Government  carried  ingenuousness  further 
than  in  this  affair!  Given  a  free  hand,  Christine 
with  her  strong,  direct  commonsense  would  have 
settled  the  Irish  question  in  forty-eight  hours. 

The  Russian,  after  a  little  pause,  continued: 

"I  merely  wished  to  ask  you  whether  the  notice 
to  quit  was  serious — not  a  trick  for  raising  the 
rent." 

Christine  shook  her  head  to  the  last  clause. 

"And  then,  if  the  notice  was  quite  serious,  wheth- 
er you  knew  of  any  flats — not  too  dear.  .  .  .  Not 
that  I  mind  a  good  rent  if  one  receives  the  value 
of  it,  and  is  left  tranquil." 

The  conversation  might  at  this  point  have  taken 
a  more  useful  turn  if  Christine  had  not  felt  bound  to 
hold  herself  up  against  the  other's  high  tone  of  in- 
difference to  expenditure.  The  Russian,  in  demand- 
ing "tranquillity,"  had  admitted  that  she  regularly 
practised  the  profession — or,  as  English  girls 
strangely  called  it,  "the  business" — and  Christine 
could  have  followed  her  lead  into  the  region  of  gos- 
siping and  intimate  realism  where  detailed  conii- 


808  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

dences  are  enlighteningly  exchanged;  but  the  tone 
about  money  was  a  challenge. 

"I  should  have  been  enchanted  to  be  of  service  to 
you,"  said  Christine.  "But  I  know  nothing.  I  go 
out  less  and  less.  As  for  this  notice,  I  smile  at  it. 
I  have  a  friend  upon  whom  I  can  count  for  every- 
thing. I  have  only  to  tell  him,  and  he  will  put  me 
among  my  own  furniture  at  once.  He  has  indeed 
already  suggested  it.  So  that,  je  m'en  fiche." 

"I  also !"  said  the  Russian.  "My  new  friend — he 
is  a  colonel,  sent  from  Dublin  to  London — has  in- 
sisted upon  putting  me  among  my  own  furniture. 
But  I  have  refused  so  far — because  one  likes  to 
know  more  of  a  gentleman — does  not  one? — be- 
fore ..." 

"Truly!"  murmured  Christine. 

"And  there  is  always  Paris,"  said  the  Russian. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  from  Petrograd." 

"Yes.  But  I  know  Paris  well.  Ah!  There  is 
only  Paris !  Paris  is  a  second  home  to  me." 

"Can  one  get  a  passport  easily  for  Paris?  .  .  . 
I  mean,  supposing  the  air-raids  grew  too  dangerous 
again." 

"Why  not,  madame?  If  one  has  one's  papers. 
To  get  a  passport  from  Paris  to  London,  that  would 
be  another  thing,  I  admit.  ...  I  see  that  you  play," 
the  Russian  added,  rising,  with  a  gesture  towards 
the  piano.  "I  have  heard  you  play.  You  play  with 
true  taste.  I  know,  for  when  a  girl  I  played  much." 

"You  flatter  me." 

"Not  at  all.    I  think  your  friend  plays  too." 


THE  INVISIBLE  POWERS  309 

"Ah!"  said  Christine.  "He!  .  .  .  It  is  an  artist, 
that  one." 

They  turned  over  the  music,  exchanged  views 
about  waltzes,  became  enthusiastic,  laughed,  and 
parted  amid  manifestations  of  good  breeding  and 
good  will.  As  soon  as  Christine  was  alone,  she  sat 
down  and  wept.  She  could  not  longer  contain  her 
distress.  Paris  gleamed  before  her.  But  no!  It 
was  a  false  gleam.  She  could  not  make  a  new 
start  in  Paris  during  the  war.  The  adventure  would 
be  too  perilous ;  the  adventure  might  end  in  a  licensed 
house.  And  yet  in  London — what  was  there  in  Lon- 
don but,  ultimately,  the  pavement?  And  the  pave- 
ment meant  complications  with  the  police,  with 
prowlers,  with  other  women;  it  meant  all  the 
scourges  of  the  profession,  including  probably  al- 
coholism. It  meant  prostitution,  to  which  she  had 
never  sunk! 

She  wished  she  had  been  killed  outright  in  the 
air-raid.  She  had  an  idea  of  going  to  the  Oratory 
the  next  morning,  and  perhaps  choosing  a  new  Vir- 
gin and  soliciting  favour  of  the  image  thereof.  She 
sobbed,  and,  sobbing,  suddenly  jumped  up  and  ran 
to  the  telephone.  And  even  as  she  gave  Gilbert's 
number,  she  broke  it  in  the  middle  with  a  sob.  After 
all,  there  was  Gilbert. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  VICTORY 

"GET  back  into  bed,"  said  G.  J.,  having  silently 
opened  the  window  in  the  sitting  room. 

He  spoke  with  courteous  persuasion,  but  his  pe- 
culiar intense  politeness  and  restraint  somewhat  dis- 
mayed Christine.  By  experience  she  knew  that  they 
were  a  sure  symptom  of  annoyance.  She  often, 
though  not  on  this  occasion,  wished  that  he  would 
yield  to  anger  and  make  a  scene;  but  he  never  did, 
and  she  would  hate  him  for  not  doing  so.  The  fact 
was  that  under  the  agreement  which  ruled  their  re- 
lations, she  had  no  right  to  telephone  to  him,  save 
in  grave  and  instant  emergency,  and  even  then  it 
was  her  duty  to  say  first,  when  she  got  the  com- 
munication: "Mr.  Pringle  wants  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Hoape."  She  had  omitted,  in  her  disquiet,  to  ful- 
fil this  formality.  Recognising  his  voice,  she  had 
begun  passionately,  without  preliminary:  "Oh!  Be- 
loved, thou  canst  not  imagine  what  has  happened  to 

me "  etc.    Still,  he  had  come.     He  had  cut  her 

short,  but  he  had  left  whatever  he  was  doing  and 
had,  amazingly,  walked  over  at  once.  And  in  the 
meantime  she  had  hurriedly  undressed  and  had  put 
on  a  new  peignoir  and  slipped  into  bed.  Of  course 
she  had  had  to  open  the  door  herself. 

310 


THE  VICTORY  311 

She  obeyed  his  command  like  an  intelligent  little 
mouse,  and  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
He  might  inspire  foreboding,  alarm,  even  terror. 
But  he  was  in  the  flat.  He  was  the  saviour,  man,  in 
the  flat.  And  his  coming  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
miracle.  He  might  have  been  out;  he  might  have 
been  entertaining;  he  might  have  been  engaged;  he 
might  well  have  said  that  he  could  not  come  until 
the  next  day.  Never  before  had  she  made  such  a 
request,  and  he  had  acceded  to  it  immediately !  Her 
mood  was  one  of  frightened  triumph.  He  was  be- 
ing most  damnably  himself;  his  demeanour  was  as 
faultless  as  his  dress.  She  could  not  even  complain 
that  he  had  forgotten  to  kiss  her.  He  said  nothing 
about  her  transgression  of  the  rule  as  to  telephoning. 
He  was  waiting,  with  his  exasperating  sense  of  jus- 
tice and  self-control,  until  she  had  acquainted  him 
with  her  case.  Instead  of  referring  coldly  and  dis- 
approvingly to  the  matter  of  the  telephone,  he  said 
in  a  judicious,  amicable  voice: 

"I  doubt  whether  your  coiffeur  is  all  that  he  ought 
to  be.  I  see  you  had  your  hair  waved  today." 

"Yes,  why?" 

"You  should  tell  the  fellow  to  give  you  the  new 
method  of  hair-waving,  steaming  with  electric  heat- 
ers— or  else  go  where  you  can  get  it." 

"New  method?"  repeated  Christine  the  Tory 
doubtfully.  And  then  with  sudden  sexual  suspicion: 

"Who  told  you  about  it?" 

"Oh  I  I  heard  of  it  months  ago,"  he  said  care- 
lessly. "Besides,  it's  in  the  papers,  in  the  adver- 


312  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

tisements.     It  lasts  longer — much  longer — and  it's 
more  artistic." 

She  felt  sure  that  he  had  been  discussing  hair- 
waving  with  some  woman.  She  thought  of  all  her 
grievances  against  him.  The  Lechford  House  epi- 
sode rankled  in  her  mind.  He  had  given  her  the 
details,  but  she  said  to  herself  that  he  had  given 
her  the  details  only  because  he  had  foreseen  that 
she  would  hear  about  the  case  from  others  or  read 
about  it  in  the  newspapers.  She  had  not  been  able 
to  stomach  that  he  should  be  at  Lechford  House 
alone  late  at  night  with  two  women  of  the  class 
she  hated  and  feared — and  the  very  night  of  her 
dreadful  experience  with  him  in  the  bomb  explosion  I 
No  explanations  could  make  that  seem  proper  or 
fair.  Naturally  she  had  never  disclosed  her  feel- 
ings. Further,  the  frequenting  of  such  a  house  as 
Lechford  House  was  more  proof  of  his  social  im- 
portance, and  incidentally  of  his  riches.  The  spec- 
tacle of  his  flat  showed  her  long  ago  that  previously 
she  had  been  underestimating  his  situation  in  the 
world.  The  revelations  as  to  Lechford  House  had 
seemed  to  show  her  that  she  was  still  underestimat- 
ing it.  She  resented  his  modesty.  She  was  inclined 
to  attribute  his  modesty  to  a  desire  to  pay  her  as 
little  as  he  reasonably  could.  However,  she  could 
not  in  sincerity  do  so.  He  treated  her  handsomely, 
considering  her  pretensions,  but  considering  his  po- 
sition— he  had  no  pretensions — not  handsomely. 
She  had  had  an  irrational  idea  that,  having  per- 
mitted her  to  see  the  splendour  of  his  flat,  he  ought 
to  have  increased  her  emoluments — that,  indeed,  she 


THE  VICTORY  313 

should  be  paid  not  according  to  her  original  envir- 
onment, but  according  to  his.  She  also  resented  that 
he  had  never  again  asked  her  to  his  flat.  Her  be- 
haviour on  that  sole  visit  had  apparently  decided 
him  not  to  invite  her  any  more.  She  resented  his 
perfectly  hidden  resentment. 

What  disturbed  her  more  than  anything  else  was 
a  notion  in  her  mind,  possibly  a  wrong  notion,  that 
she  cared  for  him  less  madly  than  of  old.  She 
had  always  said  to  herself,  and  more  than  once  sadly 
to  him,  that  his  fancy  for  her  would  not  and  could 
not  last;  but  that  hers  for  him  should  decline  puz- 
zled her  and  added  to  her  grievances  against  him. 
She  looked  at  him  from  the  little  nest  made  by  her 
head  between  two  pillows.  Did  she  in  truth  cart 
for  him  less  madly  than  of  old?  She  wondered. 
She  had  only  one  gauge,  the  physical. 

She  began  to  talk  despairingly  about  Marthe, 
whom,  of  course,  she  had  had  to  mention  at  the 
door.  He  said  quietly: 

"But  it's  not  because  of  Marthe's  caprices  that 
I'm  asked  to  come  down  to-night,  I  suppose?" 

She  told  him  about  the  closing  of  the  Promenade 
in  a  tone  of  absolute,  resigned  certainty  that  ad- 
mitted of  no  facile  pooh-poohings  or  reassurances. 
And  then,  glancing  sidelong  at  the  night-table,  where 
the  lamp  burned,  she  extended  her  half-bared  arm 
and  picked  up  the  landlord's  notice  and  gave  it  to 
him  to  read.  Watching  him  read  it  she  inwardly 
trembled,  as  though  she  had  started  on  some  per- 
ilous enterprise  the  end  of  which  might  be  black  des- 
peration, as  though  she  had  cast  off  from  the  shore 


314  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

and  was  afloat  amid  the  waves  of  a  vast,  swollen 
river — waves  that  often  hid  the  distant  further 
bank.  She  felt  somehow  that  she  was  playing  for  all 
or  nothing.  And  though  she  had  had  immense  ex- 
perience of  men,  though  it  was  her  special  business 
to  handle  men,  she  felt  herself  to  be  unskilled  and 
incompetent.  The  common  ruses,  feints,  devices, 
guiles,  chicaneries  were  familiar  to  her;  she  could 
employ  them  as  well  as  any  and  better  than  most; 
they  succeeded  marvellously  and  absurdly — in  the 
common  embarrassments  and  emergencies,  because 
they  had  not  to  stand  the  test  of  time.  Their  pur- 
pose was  temporary,  and  when  the  purpose  had 
been  accomplished  it  did  not  matter  whether  they 
were  unmasked  or  not,  for  the  adversary-victim — 
who,  in  any  event,  was  better  treated  than  he  de- 
served!— either  had  gone  for  ever,  or  would  soon 
forget,  or  was  too  proud  to  murmur,  or  philosophic- 
ally accepted  a  certain  amount  of  wile  as  part  of 
the  price  of  ecstasy.  But  this  embarrassment  and 
this  emergency  were  not  common.  They  were  a 
supreme  crisis. 

"The  other  lady  has  had  notice  too,'*  she  said, 
and  went  on :  "It's  the  same  everywhere  in  this  quar- 
ter. I  know  not  if  it  is  the  same  in  other  districts, 
but  quite  probably  it  is.  ...  It  is  the  end." 

She  saw  by  the  lifting  of  his  eyebrows  that  he 
was  impressed,  that  he  secretly  admitted  the  justi- 
fiability of  her  summons  to  him.  And  instantly  she 
took  a  reasonable,  wise,  calm  tone. 

"It  is  a  little  serious,  is  it  not?  I  do  not  frighten 
myself,  but  it  is  serious.  Above  all,  I  do  not  wish 


THE  VICTORY  315 

to  trouble  thee.  I  know  all  thy  anxieties,  and  I  am 
a  woman  who  understands.  But  except  thee  I  have 
not  a  friend,  as  I  have  often  told  thee.  In  my 
heart  there  is  a  place  only  for  one.  I  have  a  horror 
of  all  those  women.  They  weary  me.  I  am  not 
like  them,  as  thou  well  knowest.  Thus  my  existence 
is  solitary.  I  have  no  relations.  Not  one.  See! 
Go  into  no  matter  what  interior,  and  there  are  pho- 
tographs. But  here — not  one.  Yes,  one.  My  own. 
I  am  forced  to  regard  my  own  portrait.  What 
would  I  not  give  to  be  able  to  put  on  my  chimney- 
piece  thy  portrait!  But  I  cannot.  Do  not  deceive 
thyself.  I  am  not  complaining.  I  comprehend  per- 
fectly. It  is  impossible  that  a  woman  like  me  should 
have  thy  photograph  on  her  chimney-piece."  She 
smiled,  smoothing  for  a  moment  the  pucker  out  of 
her  brow.  "And  lately  I  see  thee  so  little.  Thou 
comest  less  frequently.  And  when  thou  comest, 
well — one  embraces — a  little  music — and  then  pouf! 
Thou  art  gone.  Is  it  not  so?" 

He  said: 

"But  thou  knowest  the  reason,  I  am  terribly  busy. 
I  have  all  the  preoccupations  in  the  world.  My  com- 
mittee— it  is  not  all  smooth,  my  committee.  Every- 
thing and  everybody  depends  on  me.  And  in  the 
committee  I  have  enemies  too.  The  fact  is,  I  have 
become  a  beast  of  burden.  I  dream  about  it.  And 
there  are  others  in  worse  case.  We  shall  soon  be  in 
the  third  year  of  the  war.  We  must  not  forget 
that." 

"My  little  rabbit,"  she  replied  very  calmly  and 
reasonably  and  caressingly.  "Do  not  imagine  to 


316  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

thyself  that  I  blame  thee.  I  do  not  blame  thee.  I 
comprehend  too  well  all  that  thou  dost,  all  that  thou 
art  worth.  In  every  way  thou  art  stronger  than  me. 
I  am  ten  times  nothing.  I  know  it.  I  have  no  griev- 
ance against  thee.  Thou  hast  always  given  me  what 
thou  couldst,  and  I  on  my  part  have  never  demanded 
too  much.  Say!  Have  I  been  excessive?  At  this 
hour  I  make  no  claim  on  thee.  I  have  done  all 
that  to  me  was  possible  to  make  thee  happy.  In 
my  soul  I  have  always  been  faithful  to  thee.  I  do 
not  praise  myself  for  that.  I  did  not  choose  it. 
These  things  are  not  chosen.  They  come  to  pass — 
that  is  all.  And  it  arrived  that  I  was  bound  to  go 
mad  about  thee,  and  to  remain  so.  What  wouldst 
thou?  Speak  not  of  the  war.  Is  it  not  because  of 
the  war  that  I  am  in  exile,  and  that  I  am  ruined? 
I  have  always  worked  honestly  for  my  living.  And 
there  is  not  on  earth  an  officer  who  has  encountered 
me  who  can  say  that  I  have  not  been  particularly 
nice  to  him — because  he  was  an  officer.  Thou  wilt 
excuse  me  if  I  speak  of  such  matters.  I  know  I 
am  wrong.  It  is  contrary  to  my  habit.  But  what 
wouldst  thou?  I  also  have  done  what  I  could  for 
the  war.  But  it  is  my  ruin.  Oh !  My  Gilbert !  Tell 
me  what  I  must  do.  I  ask  nothing  from  thee  but 
advice.  It  was  for  that  that  I  dared  to  telephone 
thee." 

G.  J.  answered  casually: 

"I  see  nothing  to  worry  about.  It  will  be  neces- 
sary to  take  another  flat.  That  is  all." 

"But  I — I  know  nothing  of  London.  One  tells 
me  that  it  is  in  future  impossible  for  women  who 


THE  VICTORY  617 

live  alone — like  me — to  find  a  flat — that  is  to  say, 
respectable." 

"Absurd!  I  will  find  a  flat.  I  know  precisely 
where  there  is  a  flat." 

"But  will  they  let  it  to  me?" 

"They  will  let  it  to  me,  I  suppose,"  said  he,  still 
casually. 

A  pause  ensued. 

She  said,  in  a  voice  trembling: 

"Thou  art  not  going  to  say  to  me  that  thou  wilt 
put  me  among  my  own  furniture?" 

"The  flat  is  furnished.    But  it  is  the  same  thing." 

"Do  not  let  such  a  hope  shine  before  me — me  who 
saw  before  me  only  the  pavement.  Thou  art  not 
serious." 

"I  never  was  more  serious.  For  whom  dost  thou 
take  me,  little  foolish  one?" 

She  cried: 

"Oh,  you  English!  You  are  chic.  You  make 
love  as  you  go  to  war.  Like  that!  .  .  .  One  word 
— it  is  decided!  And  there  is  nothing  more  to  say! 
Ah!  You  English  I" 

She  had  almost  screamed,  shuddering  under  the 
shock  of  his  decision,  for  which  she  had  impossi- 
bly hoped,  but  whose  reality  overwhelmed  her.  He 
sat  there  in  front  of  her,  elegant,  impeccably  dressed, 
distinguished,  aristocratic,  rich,  in  the  full  wisdom 
of  his  years,  and  in  the  strength  of  his  dominating 
will,  and  in  the  righteousness  of  his  heart.  One 
could  absolutely  trust  such  as  him  to  do  the  right 
thing,  and  to  do  it  generously,  and  to  do  it  all  the 
time.  And  she,  she  had  won  him.  He  had  recog- 


318  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

nised  her  qualities.  She  had  denied  any  claim  upon 
him,  but  by  his  decision  he  had  admitted  a  claim — a 
claim  that  no  money  could  satisfy.  After  all,  for 
eighteen  months  she  had  been  more  to  him  than 
any  other  woman.  He  had  talked  freely  to  her. 
He  had  concealed  naught  from  her.  He  had  spoken 
to  her  of  his  discouragements  and  of  his  weaknesses. 
He  had  had  no  shame  before  her.  By  her  ac- 
quiescences,  her  skill,  her  warmth,  her  adaptability, 
her  intense  womanliness,  she  had  created  between 
them  a  bond  stronger  than  anything  that  could  keep 
them  apart.  The  bond  existed.  It  could  not  during 
the  whole  future  be  broken  save  by  a  disloyalty.  A 
disloyalty,  she  divined,  would  irrevocably  destroy 
it.  But  she  had  no  fear  on  that  score,  for  she  knew 
her  own  nature.  His  decision  did  more  than  fill  her 
with  a  dizzy  sense  of  relief,  a  mad,  intolerable  hap- 
piness— it  re-established  her  self-respect.  No  ordi- 
nary woman,  handicapped  as  she  was,  could  have 
captured  this  fastidious  and  shy  paragon.  .  .  .  And 
the  notion  that  her  passion  for  him  had  dwindled 
was  utterly  ridiculous,  like  the  notion  that  he  would 
tire  of  her.  She  was  saved.  She  burst  into  wild 
tears. 

"Ah!  Pardon  me!"  she  sobbed.  "I  am  quite 
calm,  really.  But  since  the  air-raid,  thou  knowest, 
I  have  not  been  quite  the  same.  .  .  .  Thou !  Thou 
art  different.  Nothing  could  disturb  thy  calm.  Ah  I 
If  thou  wert  a  general  at  the  front!  What  sang- 
froid! What  presence  of  mind!  But  I " 

He  bent  towards  her,  and  she  suddenly  sprang  up 
and  seized  him  round  the  neck,  and  ate  his  lips,  and 

J 


THE  VICTORY  319 

while  she  strangled  and  consumed  him  she  kept  mut- 
tering to  him: 

"Hope  not  that  I  shall  thank  thee.  I  cannot.  I 
cannot!  The  words  with  which  I  could  thank  thee 
do  not  exist.  But  I  am  thine,  thine  1  All  of  me  is 
thine.  Humiliate  me!  Demand  of  me  impossible 
things!  I  am  thy  slave,  thy  creature!  Ah!  Let 
me  kiss  thy  beautiful  grey  hairs.  I  love  thy  hair. 
And  thy  ears.  ..." 

The  thought  of  her  insatiable  temperament 
flashed  through  her  as  she  held  him,  and  of  his 
northern  sobriety,  and  of  the  profound,  unchange- 
able difference  between  these  two.  She  would  dis- 
cipline her  temperament;  she  would  subjugate  it. 
Women  were  capable  of  miracles — and  women 
alone.  And  she  was  capable  of  miracles. 

A  strange,  muffled  noise  came  to  them  across  the 
darkness  of  the  sitting  room,  and  G.  J.  raised  his 
head  slightly  to  listen. 

"Repose  !  Repose  thyself  in  the  arms  of  thy  little 
mother,"  she  breathed  softly.  "It  is  nothing.  It  is 
but  the  wind  blowing  the  blind  against  the  curtains." 

And  later,  when  she  had  distilled  the  magic  of 
the  hour  and  was  tranquillised,  she  said: 

"And  where  is  it,  this  flat?" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

IDYLL 

CHRISTINE  said  to  Marie,  otherwise  la  mere  Gas- 
ton,  the  new  servant  in  the  new  flat,  who  was  holding 
in  her  hand  a  telegram  addressed  to  "Hoape,  Al- 
bany": 

"Give  it  to  me.  I  will  put  it  in  front  of  the  clock 
on  the  mantelpiece." 

And  she  lodged  it  among  the  gilt  cupids  that 
supported  the  clock  on  the  fringed  mantelpiece  in 
the  drawing-room.  She  did  so  with  a  little  gesture 
of  childlike  glee  expressing  her  satisfaction  in  the 
flat  as  a  whole. 

The  flat  was  dark;  she  did  not  object,  loving  ar- 
tificial light.  The  rooms  were  all  very  small;  she 
loved  cosiness.  There  was  a  garage  close  by,  which 
might  have  disturbed  her  nights ;  but  it  did  not.  The 
bathroom  was  open  to  the  bedroom;  no  arrangement 
could  be  better.  G.  J.  in  enumerating  the  disadvan- 
tages of  the  flat  had  said  also  that  it  was  too  much 
and  too  heavily  furnished.  Not  at  all.  She  adored 
the  cumbrous  and  rich  furniture;  she  did  not  want 
in  her  flat  the  empty  spaces  of  a  ballroom ;  she  want- 
ed to  feel  that  she  was  within  an  interior — inside 
something.  She  gloried  in  the  flat.  She  preferred 
it  even  to  her  memory  of  G.  J.'s  flat  in  the  Albany. 

320 


IDYLL  321 

Its  golden  ornateness  flattered  her.  The  glittering 
cornices,  and  the  big  carved  frames  of  the  pictures 
of  impossible  flowers  and  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
in  historic  coiffures  and  costumes,  appeared  mar- 
vellous to  her.  She  had  never  seen,  and  certainly 
had  never  hoped  to  inhabit,  anything  like  it.  But 
then  Gilbert  was  always  better  than  his  word. 

He  had  been  quite  frank,  telling  her  that  he  knew 
of  the  existence  of  the  flat  simply  because  it  had 
been  occupied  for  a  brief  time  by  the  Mrs.  Carlos 
Smith  of  whom  she  had  heard  and  read,  and  who 
had  had  to  leave  it  on  account  of  health.  (She  did 
not  remind  him  that  once  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war  when  she  had  noticed  the  name  and  portrait  of 
Mrs.  Carlos  Smith  in  the  paper,  he,  sitting  by  her 
side,  had  concealed  from  her  that  he  knew  Mrs. 
Carlos  Smith.  Judiciously,  she  had  never  made  the 
slightest  reference  to  that  episode.)  Though  she  de- 
tested the  unknown  Mrs.  Carlos  Smith,  she  admired 
and  envied  her  for  a  great  illustrious  personage,  and 
was  secretly  very  proud  of  succeeding  Mrs.  Carlos 
Smith  in  the  tenancy.  And  when  Gilbert  told  her 
that  he  had  had  his  eye  on  the  flat  for  her  before 
Mrs.  Carlos  Smith  took  it,  and  had  hesitated  on 
account  of  its  drawbacks,  she  was  even  more  proud. 
And  reassured  also.  For  this  detail  was  a  proof 
that  Gilbert  had  really  had  the  intention  to  put  her 
"among  her  own  furniture"  long  before  the  night  of 
the  supreme  appeal  to  him.  .  .  .  Only  he  was  al- 
ways so  cautious. 

And  Gilbert  was  the  discoverer  of  la  mere  Gas- 
ton,  too,  and  as  frank  about  her  as  about  the  flat 


822  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

La  mere  Gaston  was  the  widow  of  a  French  soldier, 
domiciled  in  London  previous  to  the  war,  who  had 
died  of  wounds  in  one  of  the  Lechford  hospitals; 
and  it  was  through  the  Lechford  Committee  that 
Gilbert  had  come  across  her.  A  few  weeks  earlier 
than  the  beginning  of  the  formal  liaison  Mrs.  Braid- 
ing had  fallen  ill  for  a  space,  and  Madame  Gaston 
had  been  summoned  as  charwoman  to  aid  Mrs. 
Braiding's  young  sister  in  the  Albany  flat.  With  ex- 
cellent judgment  Gilbert  had  chosen  her  to  succeed 
Marthe,  whom  he  himself  had  reproachfully  dis- 
missed from  Cork  Street. 

He  was  amazingly  clever,  was  Gilbert,  for  he  had 
so  arranged  things  that  Christine  had  been  able  to 
cut  off  her  Cork  Street  career  as  with  a  knife.  She 
had  departed  from  Cork  Street  with  two  trunks  and 
a  few  cardboard  boxes — her  stove  was  abandoned 
to  the  landlord — and  vanished  into  London  and  left 
no  trace.  Except  Gilbert,  nobody  who  knew  her  in 
Cork  Street  was  aware  of  her  new  address,  and  no- 
body who  knew  her  in  Mayfair  knew  that  she  had 
come  from  Cork  Street.  Her  ancient  acquaintances 
in  Cork  Street  would  ring  the  bell  there  in  vain. 

Madame  Gaston  was  a  neat,  plump  woman  of 
perhaps  forty,  not  looking  her  years.  She  had  a 
comprehending  eye.  After  three  words  from  Gil- 
bert she  had  mastered  the  situation,  and  as  she  per- 
fectly realised  where  her  interest  lay  she  could  be 
relied  upon  for  discretion.  In  all  delicate  matters 
only  her  eye  talked.  She  was  a  Protestant,  and  went 
to  the  French  church  in  Soho  Square,  which  she 
called  the  "Temple."  Christine  and  she  had  had 


IDYLL  323 

flut  one  Sunday  together — and  Christine  had  gone 
with  her  to  the  Temple !  The  fact  was  that  Chris- 
tine had  decided  to  be  a  Protestant.  She  needed  a 
religion,  and  Catholicism  had  an  inconvenience— 
confession.  She  had  regularised  her  position,  so 
much  so  that  by  comparison  with  the  past  she  was 
now  perfectly  respectable.  Yet  if  she  had  been 
candid  in  the  confessional  the  priest  would  still  have 
convicted  her  of  mortal  sin;  which  would  have  been 
very  unfair;  and  she  could  not,  in  view  of  her  re- 
spectability, have  remained  a  Catholic  without  con- 
fessing, however  infrequently.  Madame  Gaston,  as 
soon  as  she  was  sure  of  her  convert,  referred  to 
Catholicism  as  "idolatry." 

"Put  your  apron  on,  Marie,"  said  Christine. 
"Monsieur  will  be  here  directly." 

"Ah,  yes,  Madame!" 

"Have  you  opened  the  kitchen-window  to  tak* 
away  the  smell  of  cooking?" 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"Am  I  all  right,  Marie?" 

Madame  Gaston  surveyed  her  mistress,  wha 
turned  round. 

"Yes,  Madame,  I  think  that  Monsieur  will  much 
like  the  negligee."  She  departed  to  don  the  apron. 

Between  these  two  it  was  continually  "monsieur," 
"monsieur."  He  was  seldom  there,  but  he  was  al- 
ways there,  always  being  consulted,  placated,  in- 
voked, revered,  propitiated,  magnified.  He  was  the 
giver  of  all  good  and  there  was  no  other  Allah,  and 
Jie  had  two  prophets. 

Christine  sang,  she  twittered,  she  pirouetted,  out 


824  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

of  sheer  youthful  joy.  She  had  forgotten  care  and 
forgotten  promiscuity;  good  fortune  had  washed  her 
pure.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  massive  bevelled 
mirror,  and  saw  that  she  was  fresh  and  young  and 
lithe  and  graceful.  And  she  felt  triumphant.  Gil- 
bert had  expressed  the  fear  that  she  might  get  lonely 
and  bored.  He  had  even  said  that  occasionally  he 
might  bring  along  a  man,  and  that  perhaps  the  man 
would  have  a  very  nice  woman  friend.  She  had  not 
very  heartily  responded.  She  was  markedly  sympa- 
thetic towards  Englishmen,  but  towards  English- 
women— no!  And  especially  she  did  not  want  to 
know  any  Englishwomen  in  the  same  situation  as 
herself.  Lonely?  Impossible!  Bored?  Impossi- 
ble !  She  had  an  establishment.  She  had  a  civil  list. 
Her  days  passed  like  an  Arabian  dream.  She  never 
had  an  unfilled  moment,  and  when  each  day  was 
over  she  always  remembered  little  things  which  she 
had  meant  to  do  and  had  not  found  time  to  do. 

She  was  a  superb  sleeper,  and  arose  at  noon. 
Three  o'clock  usually  struck  before  her  day  had 
fairly  begun — unless,  of  course,  she  happened  to  be 
very  busy,  in  which  case  she  would  be  ready  for  con- 
tact with  the  world  at  the  lunch-hour.  Her  main 
occupation  was  to  charm,  to  allure,  and  to  gratify  a 
man;  for  that  she  lived.  Her  distractions  were  music, 
the  reading  of  novels,  Le  Journal  and  Les  Grandes 
Modes.  And  for  the  war  she  knitted.  In  her  new 
situation  it  was  essential  that  she  should  do  some- 
thing for  the  war.  Therefore  she  knitted,  being  a 
good  knitter,  and  her  knitting  generally  lay  about. 

She  popped  into  the  dining-room  to  see  if  the 


IDYLL  325 

table  was  well  set  for  dinner.  It  was,  but  in  order 
to  show  that  Marie  did  not  know  everything,  she 
rearranged  somewhat  the  flowers  in  the  central 
bowl.  Then  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
sat  down  at  the  piano  and  waited.  The  instant  of 
arrival  approached.  Gilbert's  punctuality  was  ab- 
solute, always  had  been;  sometimes  it  alarmed  her. 
She  could  not  have  to  wait  more  than  a  minute  or 
two,  according  to  the  inexactitude  of  her  clock.  .  .  . 
The  bell  rang,  and  simultaneously  she  began  to  play 
a  five-finger  exercise.  Often  in  the  old  life  she  had 
executed  upon  him  this  innocent  subterfuge,  to  make 
him  think  she  practised  the  piano  to  a  greater  extent 
than  she  actually  did,  that  indeed  she  was  always 
practising.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  was 
not  deceived. 

Hear  Marie  fly  to  the  front  door!  See  Chris- 
tine's face,  see  her  body,  as  in  her  pale,  bright  gown 
she  peeps  round  the  half-open  door  of  the  drawing- 
room!  She  lives,  then.  Her  eyes  sparkle  for  the 
giver  of  all  good,  for  the  adored,  and  her  brow  is 
puckered  for  him,  and  the  jewels  on  her  hand  burn 
for  him,  and  every  pleat  of  her  garments  visible  and 
invisible  is  pleated  for  him.  She  is  a  child.  She  has 
snatched  up  a  chocolate,  and  put  it  between  her 
teeth,  and  so  she  offers  the  half  of  it  to  him,  smiling, 
silent.  She  is  a  child,  but  she  is  also  a  woman  in- 
tensely skilled  in  her  art.  .  .  . 

"Monster!"  she  said.  "Come  this  way."  And 
she  led  him  down  the  tunnel  to  the  bedroom.  There, 
in  the  corner  of  the  bathroom,  stood  an  antique  closed 
toilet  stand,  such  as  was  used  by  men  in  the  days 


326  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

before  splashing  and  sousing  were  invented.  She 
had  removed  it  from  the  drawing-room. 

"Open  it,"  she  commanded. 

He  obeyed.  Its  little  compartments,  which  had 
been  empty,  were  filled  with  a  man's  toilet  instru- 
ments— brushes,  file,  scissors,  shaving  soap  (his 
own  brand),  a  safety  razor,  &c.  The  set  was  com- 
plete. She  had  known  exactly  the  requirements. 

"It  is  a  little  present  from  thy  woman,"  she  said. 

"In  future  thou  wilt  have  no  excuse Sit  down. 

Marie!" 

"Madame." 

"Take  off  the  boots  of  Monsieur." 

Marie  knelt. 

Christine  found  the  new  slippers. 

"And  now  this !"  she  said,  after  he  had  washed 
and  used  the  new  brushes,  producing  a  black  house 
jacket  with  velvet  collar  and  cuffs. 

"How  tired  thou  must  be  after  thy  day!"  she  mur- 
mured, patting  him  with  tiny  pats. 

"Thou  knowest,  my  little  one,"  she  said,  pointing 
to  the  gas  stove  in  the  bedroom  fireplace.  "For  the 
other  rooms  a  gas  stove — I  am  indifferent.  But  the 
bedroom  is  something  else.  The  bedroom  is  sacred. 
I  could  not  tolerate  a  gas  stove  in  the  bedroom.  A 
coal  fire  is  necessary  to  me.  You  do  not  think  so?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "You  are  quite  right.  It  shall 
be  seen  to." 

"Can  I  give  the  order?  Thou  permittest  me 
to  give  the  order?" 

"Certainly." 

In  the  drawing-room  she  cushioned  him  well  in 


IDYLL  327 

the  best  easy  chair,  and,  sitting  down  on  a  pouf  near 
him,  began  to  knit  like  an  industrious  wife  who  un- 
derstands the  seriousness  of  war.  Nothing  escaped 
the  attention  of  that  man.  He  espied  the  telegram. 

"What's  that?" 

"Ah !"  she  cried,  springing  up  and  giving  it  to 
him.  "Stupid  that  I  am !  I  forgot." 

He  looked  at  the  address. 

"How  did  this  come  here?"  he  asked  mildly. 

"Marie  brought  it — from  the  Albany." 

"Oh!" 

He  opened  the  telegram  and  read  it,  having 
dropped  the  envelope  into  the  silk-lined,  gilded 
waste-paper  basket  by  the  fender. 

"It  is  nothing  serious?"  she  questioned. 

"No.     Business." 

He  might  have  shown  it  to  her — he  had  shown 
her  telegrams  before — but  he  stuck  it  into  his  pock- 
et. Then,  without  a  word  to  Christine,  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  Marie  appeared. 

"Marie !  The  telegram — why  did  you  bring  it 
here?" 

"Monsieur,  it  was  like  this.  I  went  to  Mon- 
sieur's flat  to  fetch  two  aprons  that  I  had  left  there. 
The  telegram  was  on  the  console  in  the  ante-cham- 
ber. Knowing  that  Monsieur  was  to  come  direct 
here,  I  brought  it." 

"Does  Mrs.  Braiding  know  you  brought  it?" 

"Ah!  As  for  Mrs.  Braiding,  Monsieur " 

Marie  stopped,  disclaiming  any  responsibility  for 
Mrs.  Braiding,  of  whom  she  was  somewhat  jeal- 
ous. "I  thought  to  do  well." 


328  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  But  surely  you  can  see  you  have 
been  indiscreet.  Don't  do  it  again." 

"No,  Monsieur.     I  ask  pardon  of  Monsieur." 

Immediately  afterwards  he  said  to  Christine  in 
a  gay,  careless  tone: 

"And  this  gas  stove  here ?  Is  it  all  right?  Have 
we  tried  it?  Let  us  try  it." 

"The  weather  is  warm,  dearest." 

"But  just  to  try  it.  I  always  like  to  satisfy  my- 
self— in  time." 

"Fusser!"  she  exclaimed,  and  ignited  the  stove. 

He  gazed  at  it  absently,  then  picked  up  a  cig- 
arette and,  taking  the  telegram  from  his  pocket, 
folded  it  into  a  spill  and  with  it  lit  the  cigarette. 

"Yes,"  he  said  meditatively.  "It  seems  not  a  bad 
stove."  And  he  held  the  spill  till  it  had  burnt  to  his 
finger  ends.  Then  he  extinguished  the  stove. 

She  said  to  herself: 

"He  has  burned  the  telegram  on  purpose.  But 
how  cleverly  he  did  it!  Ahl  That  man  I  There 
is  none  but  him  I" 

She  was  disquieted  about  the  telegram.  She 
feared  it.  Her  superstitiousness  was  awakened. 
She  thought  of  her  apostasy  from  Catholicism  to 
Protestantism.  She  thought  of  a  Holy  Virgin  an* 
gered.  And  throughout  the  evening  and  throughout 
the  night,  amid  her  smiles  and  teasings  and  coax- 
ings and  caresses  and  ecstasies  and  all  her  accom- 
plished, voluptuous  girlishness,  the  image  of  a  re- 
sentful Holy  Virgin  flitted  before  her.  Why  should 
he  burn  a  business  telegram?  Also,  was  he  not  at 
intervals  a  little  absent-minded? 


CHAPTER  XE 

THE  WINDOW 

G.  J.  sat  on  the  oilcloth-covered  seat  of  the  large 
overhanging  open  bay  window.  Below  him  was  the 
river,  tributary  of  the  Severn;  in  front  the  Old 
Bridge,  with  an  ancient  street  rising  beyond,  and 
above  that  the  silhouette  of  the  roofs  of  Wrikton 
surmounted  by  the  spire  of  its  vast  church.  To  the 
left  was  the  weir,  and  the  cliffs  were  there  also,  and 
the  last  tints  of  the  sunset. 

Somebody  came  into  the  coffeeroom.  G.  J.  looked 
round,  hoping  that  it  might,  after  all,  be  Concep- 
cion.  But  it  was  Concepcion's  maid,  Emily,  an  imi- 
tative young  woman  who  seemed  to  have  caught 
from  her  former  employer  the  quality  of  strange, 
sinister  provocativeness. 

She  paused  a  moment  before  speaking.  Her  thin 
figure  was  somewhat  indistinct  in  the  twilight. 

"Mrs.  Smith  wishes  me  to  say  that  she  will  cer- 
tainly be  well  enough  to  take  you  to  the  station  in 
the  morning,  sir,"  said  she  in  her  specious  tones. 
"But  she  hopes  you  will  be  able  to  stay  till  the  after- 
noon train." 

"I  shan't."    He  shook  his  head. 

"Very  well,  sir." 

And  after  another  moment's  pause  Emily,  ap- 
329 


330  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

parently  with  a  challenging  reluctance,  receded 
through  the  shadows  of  the  room  and  vanished. 

G.  J.  was  extremely  depressed  and  somewhat  in- 
dignant. He  gazed  down  bitterly  at  the  water,  fol- 
lowing with  his  eye  the  incredibly  long  branches  of 
the  tree  that  from  the  height  of  the  buttresses 
drooped  perpendicularly  into  the  water.  He  had 
had  an  astounding  week-end;  and  for  having  re- 
sponded to  Concepcion's  telegram,  for  having  taken 
the  telegram  seriously,  he  had  deserved  what  he  got. 
Thus  he  argued. 

She  had  met  him  on  the  hot  Saturday  afternoon 
in  a  Ford  car.  She  did  not  look  ill.  She  looked  as 
if  she  had  fairly  recovered  from  her  acute  neuras- 
thenia. She  was  smartly  and  carelessly  dressed  in 
a  summer  sporting  costume,  and  had  made  a  strong 
contrast  to  every  other  human  being  on  the  platform 
of  the  small  provincial  station.  The  car  drove  not 
to  the  famous  principal  hotel,  but  to  a  small  hotel 
just  beyond  the  bridge.  She  had  given  him  tea  in 
the  coffeeroom  and  had  taken  him  out  again,  on  foot, 
showing  him  the  town — the  half-timbered  houses, 
the  immense  castle,  the  market-hall,  the  spacious 
flat-fronted  residences,  the  multiplicity  of  solicitors, 
banks  and  surveyors,  the  bursting  provision  shops 
with  imposing  fractions  of  animals  and  expensive 
pies,  and  the  drapers  with  ladies'  blouses  at  2s.  4d. 
Then  she  had  conducted  him  to  an  organ  recital  in 
the  vast  church  where,  amid  faint  gas  jets  and 
beadles  and  stalls  and  stained  glass  and  holiness  and 
centuries  of  history  and  the  high  respectability  of 
the  town,  she  had  whispered  sibilantly,  and  other 


THE  WINDOW  331 

people  had  whispered,  in  the  long  intervals  of  the 
organ.  She  had  removed  him  from  the  church  be- 
fore the  collection  for  the  Red  Cross,  and  when 
they  had  eaten  a  sort  of  dinner  she  had  borne  him 
away  to  the  Russian  dancers  in  the  Moot  Hall. 

She  said  she  had  seen  the  Russian  dancers  once 
already,  and  that  they  were  richly  worth  to  him  a 
six-hours'  train  journey.  The  posters  of  the  Rus- 
sian dancers  were  rather  daring  and  seductive.  The 
Russian  dancers  themselves  were  the  most  desolat- 
ing stage  spectacle  that  G.  J.  had  ever  witnessed. 
The  troupe  consisted  of  intensely  English  girls  of 
various  ages,  and  girl-children.  The  costumes  had 
obviously  been  fabricated  by  the  artistes.  The  ar- 
tistes could  neither  dance,  pose,  group,  make  an  en- 
trance, make  an  exit,  nor  even  smile.  The  ballets, 
obviously  fabricated  by  the  same  persons  as  the 
costumes,  had  no  plot,  no  beginning  and  no  end. 
Crude  amateurishness  was  the  characteristic  of  these 
honest  and  hard-working  professionals,  who  some- 
how contrived  to  be  neither  men  nor  women — and 
assuredly  not  epicene — but  who  travelled  from  coun- 
try town  to  country  town  in  a  glamour  of  posters, 
exciting  the  towns,  in  spite  of  a  perfect  lack  of  sex, 
because  they  were  the  fabled  Russian  dancers.  The 
Moot  Hall  was  crammed  with  adults  and  their  cack- 
ling offspring,  who  heartily  applauded  the  show, 
which  indeed  was  billed  as  a  "return  visit"  due  to 
"terrific  success"  on  a  previous  occasion.  "Is  it 
not  too  marvellous,"  Concepcion  had  said.  He  had 
admitted  that  it  was.  But  the  boredom  had  been 
excruciating.  In  the  street  they  had  bought  an 


332  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

evening  paper  of  which  he  had  never  before  heard 
the  name,  to  learn  news  of  the  war.  The  war,  however, 
seemed  very  far  off;  it  had  grown  unreal.  "We'll 
talk  to-morrow,"  Concepcion  had  said,  and  had 
gone  abruptly  to  bed !  Still,  he  had  slept  well  in  the 
soft  climate,  to  the  everlasting  murmur  of  the  weir. 
Then  the  Sunday.  She  was  indisposed,  could  not 
come  down  to  breakfast,  but  hoped  to  come  down 
to  lunch,  could  not  come  down  to  lunch,  but  hoped 
to  come  down  to  tea,  could  not  come  down  to  tea — 
and  so  on  to  nightfall.  The  Sunday  had  been  like 
a  thousand  years  to  him.  He  had  learnt  the  town, 
and  the  suburbs  of  it;  the  grass-grown  streets,  the 
main  thoroughfares,  and  the  slums;  by  the  after- 
noon he  was  recognising  familiar  faces  in  the  town. 
He  had  twice  made  the  classic  round — along  the 
cliffs,  over  the  New  Bridge  (which  was  an  antique), 
up  the  hill  to  the  castle,  through  the  market-place, 
down  the  High  Street  to  the  Old  Bridge.  He  had 
explored  the  brain  of  the  landlord,  who  could  not 
grapple  with  a  time-table,  and  who  spent  most  o£ 
the  time  during  closed  hours  in  patiently  bolting 
the  front  door  which  G.  J.  was  continually  open- 
ing. He  had  talked  to  the  old  customer  who,  when- 
ever the  house  was  open,  sat  at  a  table  in  the  garden 
over  a  mug  of  cider.  He  had  played  through  all  the 
musical  comedies,  dance  albums  and  pianoforte  al- 
bums that  littered  the  piano.  He  had  read  the  same 
Sunday  papers  that  he  read  in  the  Albany.  And  he 
had  learnt  the  life  history  of  the  sole  servant,  a  very 
young  agreeable  woman  with  a  wedding  ring  and  a 
baby,  which  baby  she  carried  about  with  her  when 


THE  WINDOW  333 

serving  at  table.  Her  husband  was  in  France.  She 
said  that  as  soon  as  she  had  received  his  permission 
to  do  so  she  would  leave,  as  she  really  could  not 
get  through  all  the  work  of  the  hotel  and  mind  and 
feed  a  baby.  She  said  also  that  she  played  the 
piano  herself.  And  she  regretted  that  baby  and 
pressure  of  work  had  deprived  her  of  a  sight  of  the 
Russian  dancers,  because  she  had  heard  so  much 
about  them,  and  was  sure  they  were  beautiful.  This 
detail  touched  G.  J.'s  heart  to  a  mysterious  and 
sweet  and  almost  intolerable  melancholy.  He  had 
not  made  the  acquaintance  of  fellow-guests — for 
there  were  none,  save  Concepcion  and  Emily. 

And  in  the  evening  as  in  the  morning  the  weir 
placidly  murmured,  and  the  river  slipped  smoothly 
between  the  huge  jutting  buttresses  of  the  Old 
Bridge;  and  the  thought  of  the  perpetuity  of  the 
river,  in  whose  mirror  the  venerable  town  was  a 
mushroom,  obsessed  him,  mastered  him,  and  made 
him  as  old  as  the  river.  He  was  wonder-struck  and 
sorrow-struck  by  life,  and  by  his  own  life,  and  by 
the  incomprehensible  and  angering  fantasy  of  Con- 
cepcion. His  week-end  took  on  the  appearance 
of  the  monstrous.  Then  the  door  opened  again, 
and  Concepcion  entered  in  a  white  gown,  the  an- 
tithesis of  her  sporting  costume  of  the  day  before. 
She  approached  through  the 'thickening  shadows  of 
the  room,  and  the  vague  whiteness  of  her  gown  re- 
minded him  of  the  whiteness  of  the  form  climbing 
the  chimney-ladder  on  the  roof  of  Lechford  House 
in  the  raid.  Knowing  her,  he  ought  to  have  known 
that,  having  made  him  believe  that  she  would  not 


834  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

come  down,  she  would  certainly  come  down.  He  re- 
strained himself,  showed  no  untoward  emotion,  and 
said  in  a  calm,  genial  voice :  "Oh !  I'm  so  glad  you 
were  well  enough  to  come  down." 

She  sat  opposite  to  him  in  the  window  seat,  rather 
sideways,  so  that  her  skirt  was  pulled  close  round 
her  left  thigh  and  flowed  free  over  the  right.  He 
could  see  her  still  plainly  in  the  dusk. 

"I've  never  yet  apologised  to  you  for  my  style 
of  behaviour  at  that  committee  of  yours,"  she  be- 
gan abruptly  in  a  soft,  kind,  reasonable  voice.  "I 
know  I  let  you  down  horribly.  Yes,  yes!  I  did. 
And  I  ought  to  apologise  to  you  for  to-day  too.  But 
I  don't  think  I'll  apologise  to  you  for  bringing  you 
to  Wrikton  and  this  place.  They're  not  real,  you 
know.  They're  an  illusion.  There  is  no  such  place 
as  Wrikton  and  this  river  and  this  window.  There 
couldn't  be,  could  there?  Queen  and  I  motored 
over  here  once  from  Paulle — it's  not  so  very  far — 
and  we  agreed  that  it  didn't  really  exist.  I  never 
forgot  it;  I  was  determined  to  come  here  again 
some  time,  and  that's  why  I  chose  this  very  spot 
when  half  Harley  Street  stood  up  and  told  me  I 
must  go  away  somewhere  after  my  cure  and  be  by 
myself,  far  from  the  pernicious  influence  of  friends. 
I  think  I  gave  you  a  very  fair  idea  of  the  town  yes- 
terday. But  I  didn't  show  you  the  funniest  thing  in 
it — the  inside  of  a  solicitor's  office.  You  remem- 
ber the  large  grey  stone  house  in  Mill  Street — the 
grass  street,  you  know — with  'Simpover  and  Simp- 
over'  on  the  brass  plate,  and  the  strip  of  green  felt 
nailed  all  round  the  front  door  to  keep  the  wind 


THE  WINDOW  335 

out  in  winter.  Well,  it's  all  in  the  same  key  inside. 
And  I  don't  know  which  is  the  funniest,  the  Russian 
dancers,  or  the  green  felt  round  the  front  door, 
or  Mr.  Simpover,  or  the  other  Mr.  Simpover.  I'm 
sure  neither  of  those  men  is  real,  though  they  both 
somehow  have  children.  You  remember  the  yellow 
cards  that  you  see  in  so  many  of  the  windows:  'A 
man  has  gone  from  this  house  to  fight  for  King  and 
Country!' — the  elder  Mr.  Simpover  thinks  it  would 
be  rather  boastful  to  put  the  card  in  the  window,  so 
he  keeps  it  on  the  mantelpiece  in  his  private  office. 
It's  for  his  son.  And  yet  I  assure  you  the  father 
isn't  real.  He  is  like  the  town,  he  simply  couldn't 
be  real." 

"What  have  you  been  up  to  in  the  private  office?" 
G.  J.  asked  lightly. 

"Making  my  will." 

"What  for?" 

"Isn't  it  the  proper  thing  to  do?  I've  left  every- 
thing to  you." 

"You  haven't,  Con!"  he  protested.  There  was 
absolutely  no  tranquillity  about  this  woman.  With 
her,  the  disconcerting  unexpected  happened  every 
five  minutes. 

"Did  you  suppose  I  was  going  to  send  any  of 
my  possessions  back  to  my  tropical  relatives  in 
South  America?  I've  left  everything  to  you  to  do 
what  you  like  with.  Squander  it  if  you  like,  but  I 
expect  you'll  give  it  to  war  charities.  Anyhow,  I 
thought  it  would  be  safest  in  your  hands." 

He  retorted  in  a  tone  quietly  and  sardonically 
challenging: 


336  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

"But  I  was  under  the  impression  you  were  cured." 

"Of  my  neurasthenia?" 

"Yes." 

"I  believe  I  am.  I  gained  thirteen  pounds  in  the 
nursing  home,  and  slept  like  a  greengrocer.  In  f  actr 
the  Weir  Mitchell  treatment,  with  modern  improve- 
ments of  course,  enjoyed  a  marvellous  triumph  in  my 
case.  But  that's  not  the  point.  G.  J.,  I  know  you 
think  I  behaved  very  childishly  yesterday,  and  that 
I  deserved  to  be  ill  to-day  for  what  I  did  yesterday. 
And  I  admit  you're  a  saint  for  not  saying  so.  But  I 
wasn't  really  childish,  and  I  haven't  really  been  ill 
to-day.  I've  only  been  in  a  devil  of  a  dilemma.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  something.  I  telegraphed  for  you 
so  that  I  could  tell  you.  But  as  soon  as  I  saw  you  I 
was  afraid  to  tell  you.  Not  afraid,  but  I  couldn't 
make  up  my  mind  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you  or  not. 
I've  lain  in  bed  all  day  trying  to  decide  the  point. 
To-night  I  decided  I  oughtn't,  and  ihen  all  of  a  sud- 
den, just  now,  I  became  an  automaton  and  put  on 
some  things,  and  here  I  am  telling  you." 

She  paused.  G.  J.  kept  silence.  Then  she  con- 
tinued, in  a  voice  in  which  persuasiveness  was  added 
to  calm,  engaging  reasonableness: 

"Now  you  must  get  rid  of  all  your  conventional 
ideas,  G.  J.  Because  you're  rather  conventional. 
You  must  be  completely  straight — I  mean  intellec- 
tually— otherwise  I  can't  treat  you  as  an  intellectual 
equal,  and  I  want  to.  You  must  be  a  realist — if  any 
man  can  be."  She  spoke  almost  with  tenderness. 

He  felt  mysteriously  shy,   and  with  a  brusque 


THE  WINDOW  337 

movement  of  the  head  shifted  his  glance  from  her  to 
the  river. 

"Well?"  he  questioned,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  water 
that  continually  slipped  in  large,  swirling,  glinting 
sheets  under  the  bridge. 

"I'm  going  to  kill  myself." 

At  first  the  words  made  no  impression  on  him. 
He  replied: 

"You  were  right  when  you  said  this  place  was  an 
illusion.  It  is." 

And  then  he  began  to  be  afraid.  Did  she  mean  it? 
She  was  capable  of  anything.  And  he  was  involved 
in  her,  inescapably.  Yes,  he  was  afraid.  Neverthe- 
less, as  she  kept  silence  he  went  on — with  bravado: 

"And  how  do  you  intend  to  do  it?" 

"That  will  be  my  affair.  But  I  venture  to  say  that 
my  way  of  doing  it  will  make  Wrikton  historic,"  she 
said,  curiously  gentle. 

"Trust  you!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  looking  at 
her.  "Con,  why  will  you  always  be  so  theatrical?" 

She  changed  her  posture  for  an  easier  one,  half 
reclining.  Her  face  and  demeanour  seemed  to  have 
the  benign  masculinity  of  a  man's. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  answered.  "I  oughtn't  to  have 
said  that.  At  any  rate,  to  you.  I  ought  to  have  had 
more  respect  for  your  feelings." 

He  said: 

"You  aren't  cured.  That's  evident.  All  this  is 
physical." 

"Of  course  it's  physical,  G.  J.,"  she  agreed,  with 
an  intonation  of  astonishment  that  he  should  be  guilty 
of  an  utterance  so  obvious  and  banal.  "Did  you  ever 


338  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

know  anything  that  wasn't?  Did  you  ever  even 
conceive  anything  that  wasn't?  If  you  can  show  me 
how  to  conceive  spirit  except  in  terms  of  matter,  I'd 
like  to  listen  to  you." 

"It's  against  nature — to  kill  yourself." 
"Oh!"  she  murmured.  "I'm  quite  used  to  that 
charge.  You  aren't  by  any  means  the  first  to  accuse 
me  of  being  against  nature.  But  can  you  tell  me 
where  nature  ends?  That's  another  thing  I'd  like  to 
know.  .  .  .  My  dear  friend,  you're  being  conven- 
tional, and  you  aren't  being  realistic.  You  must 
know  perfectly  well  in  your  heart  that  there's  no 
reason  why  I  shouldn't  kill  myself  if  I  want  to.  You 
aren't  going  to  talk  to  me  about  the  Ten  Command- 
ments, I  suppose,  are  you?  There's  a  risk,  of  course, 
on  the  other  side — shore — but  perhaps  it's  worth 
taking.  You  aren't  in  a  position  to  say  it  isn't  worth 
taking.  And  at  worst  the  other  shore  must  be  mar- 
vellous. It  may  possibly  be  terrible,  if  you  arrive 
too  soon  and  without  being  asked,  but  it  must  be 
marvellous.  .  .  .  Naturally,  I  believe  in  immortal- 
ity. If  I  didn't,  the  thing  wouldn't  be  worth  doing. 
Oh !  I  should  hate  to  be  extinguished.  But  to  change 
one  existence  for  another,  if  the  fancy  takes  you — 
that  seems  to  me  the  greatest  proof  of  real  inde- 
pendence that  anybody  can  give.  It's  tremendous. 
You're  playing  chess  with  fate  and  fate's  winning, 
and  you  knock  up  the  chessboard  and  fate  has  to 
begin  all  over  again !  Can't  you  see  how  tremendous 
it  is — and  how  tempting  it  is?  The  temptation  is 
terrific." 

"I  can  see  all  that,"  said  G.  J.    He  was  surprised 


THE  WINDOW 

by  a  sudden  sense  of  esteem  for  the  mighty  volition 
hidden  behind  those  calm,  worn,  gracious  features. 
But  Concepcion's  body  was  younger  than  her  face. 
He  perceived,  as  it  were  for  the  first  time,  that 
Concepcion  was  immeasurably  younger  than  himself; 
and  yet  she  had  passed  far  beyond  him  in  experience. 
"But  what's  the  origin  of  all  this?  What  do  you 
want  to  do  it  for?  What's  happened?" 

"Then  you  believe  I  mean  to  do  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  sincerely,  and  as  naturally  as  he 
could. 

"That's  the  tone  I  like  to  hear,"  said  she,  smiling. 
"I  felt  sure  I  could  count  on  you  not  to  indulge  in  too 
much  nonsense.  Well,  I'm  going  to  try  the  next 
avatar  just  to  remind  fate  of  my  existence.  I  think 
fate's  forgotten  me,  and  I  can  stand  anything  but 
that.  I've  lost  Carly,  and  I've  lost  Queen.  .  .  .  Oh, 
G.  J. !  Isn't  it  awful  to  think.that  when  I  offered  you 
Queen  she'd  already  gone,  and  it  was  only  her  dead 
body  I  was  offering  you?  .  .  .  And  I've  lost  my 
love.  And  I've  failed,  and  I  shall  never  be  any  more 
good  here.  I  swore  I  would  see  a  certain  thing 
through,  and  I  haven't  seen  it  through,  and  I  can't! 
But  I've  told  you  all  this  before.  .  .  .  What's  left? 
Even  my  unhappiness  is  leaving  me.  Unless  I  kill 
myself  I  shall  cease  to  exist.  Don't  you  understand? 
Yes,  you  do." 

After  a  marked  pause  she  added: 

"And  I  may  overtake  Queen." 

"There's  one  thing  I  don't  understand,"  he  said, 
'as  we're  being  frank  with  each  other.  Why  do  you 


340  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

tell  me?  Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  you're  really 
making  me  a  party  to  this  scheme  of  yours?" 

He  spoke  with  a  perfectly  benevolent  detachment 
deriving  from  hers.  And  as  he  spoke  he  thought  of 
a  man  whom  he  had  once  known  and  who  had  com- 
mitted suicide,  and  of  all  that  he  had  read  about 
suicides  and  what  he  had  thought  of  them.  Suicides 
had  been  incomprehensible  to  him,  and  either  de- 
spicable or  pitiable.  And  he  said  to  himself:  "Here 
is  one  of  them !  (Or  is  it  an  illusion?)  But  she  has 
made  all  my  notions  of  suicide  seem  ridiculous." 

She  answered  his  spoken  question  with  vivacity: 

"Why  do  I  tell  you  ?  I  don't  know.  That's  the 
point  I've  been  arguing  to  myself  all  night  and  all 
day.  I'm  not  telling  you.  Something  in  me  is  forc- 
ing me  to  tell  you.  Perhaps  it's  much  more  impor- 
tant that  you  should  comprehend  me  than  that  you 
should  be  spared  the  passing  worry  that  I'm  causing 
you  by  showing  you  the  inside  of  my  head.  You're 
the  only  friend  I  have  left.  I  knew  you  before  I 
knew  Carly.  I  practically  committed  suicide  from 
my  particular  world  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  I 
was  going  back  to  my  particular  world — you  remem- 
ber, G.  J.,  in  that  little  furnished  flat — I  was  going 
back  to  it,  but  you  wouldn't  let  me.  It  was  you  who 
definitely  cut  me  off  from  my  past.  I  might  have 
been  gadding  about  safely  with  Sarah  Churcher  and 
her  lot  at  this  very  hour,  but  you  would  have  it  other- 
wise, and  so  I  finished  up  with  neurasthenia.  You 
commanded  and  I  obeyed." 

"Well,"  he  said,  ignoring  all  her  utterance  except 
the  last  words,  "obey  me  again." 


THE  WINDOW  341 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  demanded 
wistfully  and  yet  defiantly.  Her  features  were  tend- 
ing to  disappear  in  the  tide  of  night,  but  she  hap- 
pened to  sit  up  and  lean  forward  and  bring  them  a 
little  closer  to  him.  "You've  no  right  to  stop  me 
from  doing  what  I  want  to  do.  What  right  have  you 
to  stop  me?  Besides,  you  can't  stop  me.  Nothing 
can  stop  me.  It  is  settled.  Everything  is  arranged." 

He,  too,  sat  up  and  leaned  forward.  In  a  voice 
rendered  soft  by  the  realisation  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  indeed  known  her  before  Carlos  Smith  knew  her 
and  had  imagined  himself  once  to  be  in  love  with  her, 
and  of  the  harshness  of  her  destiny  and  the  fading  of 
her  glory,  he  said  simply  and  yet,  in  spite  of  himself, 
insinuatingly : 

"No  I  I  don't  claim  any  right  to  stop  you.  I  un- 
derstand better,  perhaps,  than  you  think.  But  let 
me  come  down  again  next  week-end.  Do  let  me," 
he  insisted,  still  more  softly. 

Even  while  he  was  speaking  he  expected  her  to 
say,  "You're  suggesting  that  only  in  order  to  gain 
time." 

But  she  said: 

"How  can  you  be  sure  it  wouldn't  be  my  inquest 
and  funeral  I  should  be  'letting'  you  come  down  to?" 

He  replied: 

"I  could  trust  you." 

A  delicate  night-gust  charged  with  the  scent  of 
some  plant  came  in  at  the  open  window  and  deranged 
eyer  so  slightly  a  glistening  lock  on  her  forehead. 
G.  J.,  peering  at  her,  saw  the  masculinity  melt  from 
her  face.  He  saw  the  mysterious  resurrection  of 


THE  PRETTY  LADY 

the  girl  in  her,  and  felt  in  himself  the  sudden  ex- 
citing outflow  from  her  of  that  temperamental  fluid 
whose  springs  had  been  dried  up  since  the  day  when 
she  learnt  of  her  widowhood.  She  flushed.  He 
looked  away  into  the  dark  water,  as  though  he  had 
profanely  witnessed  that  which  ought  not  to  be  wit- 
nessed. Earlier  in  the  interview  she  had  inspired 
him  with  shyness.  He  was  now  stirred,  agitated, 
thrilled — overwhelmed  by  the  effect  on  her  of  his 
own  words  and  his  own  voice.  He  was  afraid  of  his 
power,  as  a  prophet  might  be  afraid  of  his  power. 
He  had  worked  a  miracle — a  miracle  infinitely  more 
convincing  than  anything  that  had  led  up  to  it.  The 
miracle  had  brought  back  the  reign  of  reality. 

"Very  well,"  she  quivered. 

And  there  was  a  movement  and  she  was  gone. 
He  glanced  quickly  behind  him,  but  the  room  lay 
black.  ...  A  transient  pallor  on  the  blackness,  and 
the  door  banged.  He  sat  a  long  time,  solemn,  gaz- 
ing at  the  serrated  silhouette  of  the  town  against  a 
sky  that  obstinately  held  the  wraith  of  daylight,  and 
listening  to  the  everlasting  murmur  of  the  invisible 
weir.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the  town,  not  the 
least  sound.  When  at  length  he  stumbled  out,  he 
saw  the  figure  of  the  landlord  smoking  the  pipe  of 
philosophy,  and  waiting  with  a  landlord's  fatalism 
for  the  last  guest  to  go  to  bed.  And  they  talked  of 
the  weather. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE   ENVOY 

THE  next  night  G.  J.,  having  been  hailed  by  an  ao 
quaintance,  was  talking  at  the  top  of  the  steps  be- 
neath the  portal  of  a  club  in  Piccadilly.  It  was  after 
ten  by  the  clocks,  and  nearly,  but  not  quite,  dark. 
A  warm,  rather  heavy,  evening  shower  had  ceased. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  the  great  macintosh  epoch, 
by-product  of  the  war,  when  the  paucity  of  the  means 
of  vehicular  locomotion  had  rendered  macintoshes 
permissible,  even  for  women  with  pretensions  to 
smartness ;  and  at  intervals  stylish  girls  on  their  way 
home  from  unaccustomed  overtime,  passed  the  doors 
in  transparent  macintoshes  of  pink,  yellow  or  green, 
as  scornful  as  military  officers  of  the  effeminate  um- 
brella, whose  use  was  being  confined  to  clubmen  and 
old  dowdies. 

The  acquaintance  sought  advice  from  G.  J.  about 
the  shutting  up  of  households  for  Belgian  refugees. 
G.  J.  answered  absently,  not  concealing  that  he  was 
in  a  hurry.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  held  up  within 
three  minutes  of  the  scene  of  his  secret  idyll,  and  was 
anxious  to  arrive  there.  He  had  promised  himself 
this  surprise  visit  to  Christine  as  some  sort  of 
recompense  and  narcotic  for  the  immense  disturb- 
ance of  spirit  which  he  had  suffered  at  Wrikton. 

343 


844  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

That  morning  Concepcion  had  been  invisible,  but 
at  his  early  breakfast  he  had  received  a  note  from 
her,  a  brief  but  masterly  composition,  if  ever  so 
slightly  theatrical.  He  was  conscious  of  tenderness 
for  Concepcion,  of  sympathy  with  her,  of  a  desire  to 
help  to  restore  her  to  that  which  by  misfortune  she 
had  lost.  But  the  first  of  these  sentiments  he  reso- 
lutely put  aside.  He  was  determined  to  change  his 
mood  towards  her  for  the  sake  of  his  own  tran- 
quillity; and  he  had  convinced  himself  that  his  wise, 
calm,  commonsense  was  capable  of  saving  her  from 
any  tragic  and  fatal  folly.  He  had  her  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand;  but  if  she  was  expecting  too  much  from 
him  she  would  be  gradually  disappointed.  He  must 
have  peace ;  he  could  not  allow  a  bomb  to  be  thrown 
into  his  habits ;  he  was  a  bachelor  of  over  fifty  whose 
habits  had  the  value  of  inestimable  jewels  and  whose 
perfect  independence  was  the  most  precious  thing  in 
the  world.  At  his  age  he  could  not  marry  a  volcano, 
a  revolution,  a  new  radio-active  element  exhibiting 
properties  which  were  an  enigma  to  social  science. 
Concepcion  would  turn  his  existence  into  an  endless 
drama  of  which  she  alone,  with  her  deep-rooted, 
devilish  talent  for  the  sensational,  would  always 
choose  the  setting,  as  she  had  chosen  the  window  and 
the  weir.  No ;  he  must  not  mistake  affectionate  sym- 
pathy for  tenderness,  nor  tolerate  the  sexual  exploi- 
tation of  his  pity. 

As  he  listened  and  talked  to  the  acquaintance  his 
inner  mind  shifted  with  relief  to  the  vision  of  Chris- 
tine contented  and  simple  and  compliant  in  her  nest 
•- — Christine  at  once  restful  and  exciting,  Christine 


THE  ENVOY  345 

the  exquisite  symbol  of  acquiescence  and  response. 
What  a  contrast  to  Concepcion  I  It  had  been  a  bold 
and  sudden  stroke  to  lift  Christine  to  another  plane, 
but  a  stroke  well  justified  and  entirely  successful,  ful- 
filling his  dream. 

At  this  moment  he  noticed  a  figure  pass  the  door- 
way in  whose  shadow  he  was,  and  he  exclaimed 
within  himself  incredulously: 

"That  is  Christine!" 

In  the  shortest  possible  delay  he  said  "Good 
night"  to  his  acquaintance,  and  jumped  down  the 
steps  and  followed  eastwards  the  figure.  He  fol- 
lowed warily,  for  already  the  strange  and  distressing 
idea  had  occurred  to  him  that  he  must  not  overtake 
her — if  she  it  was.  It  was  she.  He  caught  sight  of 
her  again  the  thick  obscurity  by  the  prison-wall  of 
Devonshire  House.  He  recognised  the  peculiar 
brim  of  the  new  hat  and  the  new  "military"  umbrella 
held  on  the  wrist  by  a  thong.  What  was  she  doing 
abroad?  She  could  not  be  going  to  a  theatre.  She 
had  not  a  friend  in  London.  He  was  her  London. 
And  la  mere  Gaston  was  not  with  her.  Theoretically, 
of  course,  she  was  free.  He  had  laid  down  no  law. 
But  it  had  been  clearly  understood  between  them 
that  she  should  never  emerge  at  night  alone.  She 
herself  had  promulgated  the  rule,  for  she  had  a 
sense  of  propriety  and  a  strong  sense  of  reality. 
She  had  belonged  to  the  class  which  respectable, 
broad-minded  women,  when  they  bantered  G.  J.,  al- 
ways called  "the  pretty  ladies,"  and  as  a  postulant 
for  respectability  she  had  for  her  own  satisfaction  to 


346  THE  PRErrTY  LADY 

mind  her  p's  and  q's.  She  could  not  afford  not  to 
keep  herself  above  suspicion. 

She  had  been  a  courtesan.  Did  she  look  like  one? 
As  an  individual  figure  in  repose,  No!  None  could 
have  said  that  she  did.  He  had  long  since  learnt 
that  to  decide  always  correctly  by  appearance,  and 
apart  from  environment  and  gesture,  whether  an  un- 
known woman  was  or  was  not  a  wanton,  presented 
a  task  beyond  the  powers  of  even  the  completest  ex- 
perience. But  Christine  was  walking  in  Piccadilly  at 
night,  and  he  soon  perceived  that  she  was  discreetly 
showing  the  demeanour  of  a  courtesan  at  her  pro- 
fession— she  who  had  hated  and  feared  the  pave- 
ment !  He  knew  too  well  the  signs — the  waverings, 
the  turns  of  the  head,  the  variations  in  speed,  the 
scarcely  perceptible  hesitations,  the  unmistakable  air 
of  wandering  with  no  definite  objective. 

Near  Dover  Street  he  hastened  through  the  thin, 
reflecting  mire,  amid  beams  of  light  and  illuminated 
numbers  that  advanced  upon  him  in  both  directions 
thundering  or  purring,  and  crossed  Piccadilly,  and 
hurried  ahead  of  her,  to  watch  her  in  safety  from 
the  other  side  of  the  thoroughfare.  He  could  hardly 
see  her;  she  was  only  a  moving  shadow;  but  still  he 
could  see  her;  and  in  the  long  stretch  of  gloom  be- 
neath the  facade  of  the  Royal  Academy  he  saw  the 
shadow  pause  in  front  of  a  military  figure,  which  by 
a  flank  movement  avoided  the  shadow  and  went  reso- 
lutely forward.  He  lost  her  in  front  of  the  Piccadilly 
Hotel,  and  found  her  again  at  the  corner  of  Air 
Street.  She  swerved  into  Air  Street  and  crossed 
Regent  Street ;  he  was  following.  In  Denman  Street, 


THE  ENVOY  347 

close  to  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  she  stood  still  in  front 
of  another  military  figure — a  common  soldier  as  it 
proved — who  also  rebuffed  her.  The  thing  was 
flagrant.  He  halted,  and  deliberately  let  her  go 
from  his  sight.  She  vanished  into  the  dark  crowds 
of  the  Avenue. 

In  horrible  humiliation,  in  atrocious  disgust,  he 
said  to  himself: 

"Never  will  I  set  eyes  on  her  again  I  Never! 
Never!" 

Why  was  she  doing  it?  Not  for  money.  She 
could  only  be  doing  it  from  the  nostalgia  of  adven- 
turous debauch.  She  was  the  slave  of  her  tempera- 
ment, as  the  drunkard  is  the  slave  of  his  thirst.  He 
had  told  her  that  he  would  be  out  of  town  for  the 
week-end,  on  committee  business.  He  had  distinctly 
told  her  that  she  must  on  no  account  expect  him  on 
the  Monday  night.  And  her  temperament  had 
roused  itself  from  the  obscene  groves  of  her  subcon- 
sciousness  like  a  tiger  and  had  come  up  and  driven  her 
forth.  How  easy  for  her  to  escape  from  la  mere 
Gaston  if  she  chose!  And  yet — would  she  dare, 
even  at  the  bidding  of  the  tiger,  to  introduce  a 
stranger  into  the  flat?  Unnecessary,  he  reflected. 
There  were  a  hundred  accommodating  dubious  in- 
teriors between  Shaftesbury  Avenue  and  Leicester 
Square.  He  understood;  he  neither  accused  nor 
pardoned;  but  he  was  utterly  revolted,  and  wounded 
not  merely  in  his  soul  but  in  the  mose  sensitive  part 
of  his  soul — his  pride.  He  called  himself  by  the 
worst  epithet  of  opprobrium :  Simpleton  I  The  bold 
and  sudden  stroke  had  now  become  the  fatuous  ca- 


848  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

price  of  a  damned  fool.  Had  he,  at  his  age,  been 
capable  of  overlooking  the  elementary  axiom :  once 
a  wrong  'un  always  a  wrong  'un  ?  Had  be  believed 
in  reclamation?  He  laughed  out  his  disgust.  .  .  . 

No  1  He  did  not  blame  her.  To  blame  her  would 
have  been  ridiculous.  She  was  only  what  she  was, 
and  not  worth  blame.  She  was  nothing  at  all.  How 
right,  how  cursedly  right,  were  the  respectable 
dames  in  the  accent  of  amused  indifference  which 
they  employed  for  their  precious  phrase,  "the  pretty 
ladies" !  Well,  he  would  treat  her  generously — but 
through  his  lawyer. 

And  in  the  desolation,  the  dismay,  the  disillusion, 
the  nausea  which  ravaged  him  he  was  unwillingly 
conscious  of  fragments  of  thoughts  that  flickered 
like  transient  flames  far  below  in  the  deep  mines  of 
his  being.  .  .  .  "You  are  an  astounding  woman, 
Con."  .  .  .  "Do  you  want  me  to  go  to  the  bad  alto- 
gether?" ...  In  offering  him  Queen  had  not  Con- 
ception made  the  supreme  double  sacrifice  of  at- 
tempting to  bring  together,  at  the  price  of  her  own 
separation  from  both  of  them,  the  two  beings  to 
whom  she  was  most  profoundly  attached?  It  was  a 
marvellous  deed.  .  .  .  Worry,  volcanoes,  revolu- 
tions— was  he  afraid  of  them?  .  .  .  Were  they  not 
the  very  essence  of  life?  ...  A  figure  of  nobility  I 
.  .  .  Sitting  there  now  by  the  window  over  the  river, 
listening  to  the  weir.  .  .  .  "I  shall  never  be  any  more 
good."  .  .  .  But  she  never  had  a  gesture  that  was 
not  superb.  .  .  .  Was  he  really  encrusted  in  habits? 
Really  like  men  whom  he  knew  and  despised  at  his 
club?  .  .  .  She  loved  him.  .  .  .  And  what  rich, 


THE  ENVOY  349 

flattering  love  was  her  love  compared  to !  .  .  . 

She  was  young.  .  .  .  Tenderness.  .  .  .  Such  were 
the  flames  of  dim  promise  that  flickered  immeasur- 
ably beneath  the  dark  devastation  of  his  mind.  He 
ignored  them,  but  he  could  not  ignore  them.  He  ex- 
tinguished them,  but  they  were  continually  relighted. 
...  A  wedding?  .  .  .  What  sort  of  a  wedding? 
.  .  .  Poor  Carlos,  pathetically  buried  under  the 
ruthless  happiness  of  others  I  What  a  shame !  .  .  . 
Poor  Carlos!  .  .  . 

(Nice  enough  little  cocotte,  nothing  else!  But,  of 
course,  incurable!  .  .  .  He  remembered  all  her 
crimes  now.  How  she  had  been  late  in  dressing  for 
their  first  dinner.  Her  inexplicable  vanishing  from 
the  supper-party,  never  explained,  but  easily  explica- 
ble now,  perhaps.  And  so  on  and  so  on.  .  .  .  Sim- 
pleton !  Ass ! ) 

He  had  walked  heedless  of  direction.  He  was 
near  Lechford  House.  Many  of  its  windows  were 
lit.  The  great  front  doors  were  open.  A  commis- 
sionaire stood  on  guard  in  front  of  them.  To  the 
railings  was  affixed  a  newly  painted  notice.  "No 
person  will  be  allowed  to  enter  these  premises  with- 
out a  pass.  To  this  rule  there  is  no  exception." 
Lechford  House  had  been  "taken  over"  in  its  en- 
tirety by  a  Government  department  that  believed  in 
the  virtue  of  mystery  and  of  long  hours.  He  looked 
up  at  the  higher  windows.  He  could  not  distinguish 
the  chimney  amid  the  newly-revealed  stars.  Hfe 
thought  of  Queen,  the  white  woman.  Evidently  he 
had  never  understood  Queen,  for  if  Concepcion  ad- 
mired her  she  was  worth  admiration.  Concepcion 


350  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

never  made  a  mistake  in  assessing  fundamental  char- 
acter. 

The  complete  silent  absorption  of  Lechford  House 
into  the  war-machine  rather  dismayed  him.  He  had 
seen  not  a  word  as  to  the  affair  in  the  newspapers 
— and  Lechford  House  was  one  of  the  final  strong- 
holds of  privilege !  He  strolled  on  into  the  quietude 
of  the  Park — of  which  one  of  the  gate-keepers  said 
to  him  that  it  would  be  shutting  in  a  few  minutes. 
He  was  in  solitude,  and  surrounded  by  London.  He 
stood  still,  and  the  vast  sea  of  war  seemed  to  be  clos- 
ing over  him.  The  war  was  growing,  or,  the  sense  of 
its  measureless  scope  was  growing.  It  had  sprung, 
not  out  of  this  crime  or  that,  but  out  of  the  secret 
invisible  roots  of  humanity,  and  it  was  widening  to 
the  limits  of  evolution  itself.  It  transcended  judg- 
ment. It  defied  conclusions  and  rendered  equally 
impossible  both  hope  and  despair.  His  pride  in  his 
country  was  intensified  as  months  passed;  his  faith  in 
his  country  was  not  lessened.  And  yet,  wherein  was 
the  efficacy  of  grim  words  about  British  tenacity? 
The  great  new  Somme  offensive  was  not  succeeding 
in  the  North.  Was  victory  possible?  Was  victory 
deserved?  In  his  daily  labour  he  was  brought  into 
contact  with  too  many  instances  of  official  selfishness, 
folly,  ignorance,  stupidity,  and  sloth,  French  as  well 
as  British,  not  to  marvel  at  times  that  the  conflict  had 
not  come  to  an  ignominious  end  long  ago  through 
simple  lack  of  imagination.  He  knew  that  he  him- 
self had  often  failed  in  devotion,  in  rectitude,  in  sheer 
grit. 

The  supreme  lesson  of  the  war  was  its  revelation 


THE  ENVOY  351 

of  what  human  nature  actually  was.  And  the  solace 
of  the  lesson,  the  hope  for  triumph,  lay  in  the  fact 
that  human  nature  must  be  substantially  the  same 
throughout  the  world.  If  we  were  humanly  imper- 
fect, so  at  least  was  the  enemy. 

Perhaps  the  frame  of  society  was  about  to  col- 
lapse. Perhaps  Queen,  deliberately  courting  de- 
struction, and  being  destroyed,  was  the  symbol  of 
society.  What  matter?  Perhaps  civilisation,  by  its 
nobility  and  its  elements  of  reason,  and  by  the  favour 
of  destiny,  would  be  saved  from  disaster  after  fright- 
ful danger,  and  Concepcion  was  its  symbol.  .  .  . 

All  he  knew  was  that  he  had  a  heavy  day's  work 
before  him  on  the  morrow,  and  in  relief  from  in- 
soluble problems  he  turned  to  face  that  work,  thank- 
ful; thankful  that  (owing  originally  to  Queen!)  he 
had  discovered  in  the  war  a  task  which  suited  his 
powers,  which  was  genuinely  useful,  and  which 
would  finish  only  with  the  war;  thankful  for  the 
prospect  of  meeting  Concepcion  at  the  week-end  and 
exploring  with  her  the  marvellous  provocative  poten- 
tialities that  now  drew  them  together ;  thankful,  too, 
that  he  had  a  balanced  and  sagacious  mind,  and 
could  judge  justly.  (Yes,  he  was  already  forgetting 
his  bitter  condemnation  of  himself  as  a  simpleton!) 

How  in  his  human  self-sufficiency  could  he  be  ex- 
pected to  know  that  he  had  judged  the  negligible 
Christine  unjustly?  Was  he  divine  that  he  could 
see  in  the  figure  of  the  wanton  who  peered  at  sol- 
diers in  the  street  a  self-convinced  mystic  envoy  of 
the  most  clement  Virgin,  an  envoy  passionately  re- 
pentant after  apostasy,  bound  at  all  costs  to  respond 


353  THE  PRETTY  LADY 

to  an  imagined  voice  long  unheard,  and  seeking — > 
though  in  vain  this  second  time — the  protege  of  the 
Virgin  so  that  she  might  once  more  succour  and  as- 
suage his  affliction  2 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


!  0  MAY  '85  REC  ' 


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